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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603509">All My Words</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallends/pseuds/itallends'>itallends</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Cheating, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Feminization, M/M, Pining, Praise Kink, this is really messy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:02:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603509</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallends/pseuds/itallends</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Over one quiet summer, Damen becomes enamoured with his son's boyfriend.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Isander/Laurent (Captive Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>218</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>439</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. outline.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>PLEASE READ!!<br/>1) hello. this fic is really messy and problematic. it deals extensively with cheating, huge age gaps and a power imbalancing relationship. please read at your own risk.<br/>2) if ive missed something, lmk and i'll tag it!!<br/>3) i literally had to google how fathers talk to their children since mine has said 16 words to me my entire life. so if anything reads awkward im sorry<br/>4) ily. thank you for reading.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Seated in one of the private rooms in <em>Charmed Whistle, </em>Damen nurses his drink as he listens to the raucous laughter of his friends and the muffled, pulsing music from downstairs, sweat gathering along his nape.</p><p>Damen is hot. It’s not quite summer yet in Ios, but the night is warm, humid, and long enough to make him uncomfortable.</p><p>He’s tired, but he knows he won’t be able to go home soon: it’s Kashel’s party for one, and as Nikandros has reminded him all week, it’s been almost a month since he last saw any of their friends.</p><p><em>I know you’re busy writing, </em>Kashel had said earlier today, <em>but</em><em> please come.</em></p><p>Damen had stared at the blinking cursor on his blank word document and had said, <em>Alright.</em></p><p>Kashel doesn’t usually make a big deal of her birthday, but something about turning forty must have sent her in a frenzy, because everything about tonight, from the decorations to the dress code, is uncharacteristically regal. <em>Charmed Whistle </em>itself is an anomaly: tucked in between the main road and Charls Street, the restaurant has always been a point of consternation for Damen and his friends: the prices are too high, the décor is lavish, but garish, and the music always plays at a destabilising volume.</p><p>But Damen can admit this room, currently decorated with gold foil tissue and matching balloons, is nice. Its nestled onto the wide alfresco, which overlooks the traffic on the road, and beyond that, the lapping waves of the Ellosean Sea. The stringed lights in the woodwork casts multicoloured shadows on everyone’s faces, almost kaleidoscopic in design.</p><p>Kashel catches Damen peering at the large four-zero balloons and gives him a wonky grin, lips stained a pretty pink.</p><p>Damen smiles back. He’s missed her, he realises, with a jolt of guilt. Between managing his workshops, working on his writing, and teaching, he’s had a hard time juggling <em>this </em>part of his life.</p><p>Kashel knows him better than most people. She understands the expression on his face and digs her sharp heel into his ankles. “See?” she says, over the sound of discomfort he makes. “I told you you’d have fun tonight. You’re too pent up.”</p><p>Damen shrugs, pretending to concede his defeat, because up until this point, he had been so-so about everything.</p><p>Vannes arm is tight around Kashel’s shoulders. She’s the worst at holding her drink; her eyes are already drooping, and they’ve been here for about two hours. Still, she manages to say in support of her girlfriend, “Your face gets all scrunchy when you’re stressed.”</p><p>“Don’t scrunch your face,” Kashel says in warning. “We can’t afford anymore wrinkles appearing.”</p><p>Damen touches the lines by his eyes and mouth. “I’ve had these for more than twenty years.”</p><p>Nikandros inhales his cigarette; he’s the only one standing, leaning over the balustrade to exhale out into the darkening sky.</p><p>“Leave him alone,” he says. “He’s writing a bestseller.”</p><p>Damen flushes. The back of his neck prickles with sweat and embarrassment, a pool of self-loathing flowing through his chest. “It’s not a bestseller.”</p><p>“You don’t have to be so modest,” Kashel says, the tease in her voice as familiar as a scent.</p><p>Damen is good at pretending: he has been, for a while, after all. So, it’s easy, now, to relax his shoulders, let the grin overtake his face. “You didn’t let me finish. Not a bestseller <em>yet</em>.”</p><p>Nikandros laughs, his mouth clouded with greying smoke. Damen wants a cigarette, too, and he almost asks for one — but he’s been trying to quit for months. He’s down to three a week. He’d had his third yesterday.</p><p>Briefly, he wonders what Nikandros — what everyone — would say if he told them that just this morning, he had asked his editor for an extension on his book. For the third time this month.</p><p>Instead he keeps drinking the sweet wine the waiter had suggested for him. It’s nice enough, although Damen has not made his mind up about whether it’s worth the steep price tag. The conversation around him continues on in pleasant waves, rising and falling. This is easy too: sitting with friends he’s known for half his life — in Nikandros’ case, even more — and just… being still, letting his mind slowly halt.</p><p>Lately, Damen hasn’t had much noise in his life. His office is always quiet and for the last few months, his house as well. Every time Damen thinks of going back home to darkened hallways and empty rooms, he misses his son more.</p><p>This time, Damen kicks Kashel’s ankle. It takes him three tries to get her attention. When she looks over, he asks, “Has Isander been ignoring you too?”</p><p>Kashel shrugs noncommittally. Her mouth presses down in frown, the look in her eyes relenting. She had looked at him the same way last year when Damen bumped into her and Vannes holding hands at their local coffee shop.</p><p>She says with a small sigh, “I’ve long since accepted that my son is every bit like his father.”</p><p>Damen mirrors her frown, though he knows she’s kidding. Mostly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He kicks her again for good measure.</p><p>Kashel pulls back her ankle, laughing. “It means Isander has now officially mastered the art of ghosting.”</p><p>“I don’t ghost.”</p><p>“You do,” says Nikandros, settling beside him. The smell of smoke on his blazer is intoxicating. Fuck. Damen regrets his smoke yesterday.</p><p>He downs the last of his wine and tops up. “I don’t ghost intentionally. I just… forget to reply sometimes.”</p><p>“So does Isander apparently,” Kashel says with a snort.</p><p>Damen’s own mouth releases a small sigh. Over the last few weeks, he’s called Isander a dozen times and texted him even more than that. Isander’s replies have either been non-existent or so short and curt, it’s been impossible to continue any conversation.</p><p>Every conversation ends the same way: “I’m busy, Dad. I’ll call <em>you, </em>okay?”</p><p>Kashel is right in a way. Isander’s behaviour, infuriatingly, reminds Damen of himself at twenty: stressed, belligerent, and trying not to lose his mind at the thought of becoming a father.</p><p>Damen still loses his mind over parenting woes, but in a more mellow, concrete way.</p><p>Damen’s thoughts on Isander are cut short by the arrival of the wait staff. Damen drools a little at the smell of stuffed grape leaves and pastitsio. It’s been eons since he’s had proper, traditional meals. Recently, all his food has come in plastic take away boxes, lids covered in condensation.</p><p>Kashel’s eyes don’t fall on the food though; they go over Damen’s shoulder, towards the door.</p><p>“Hey!” Kashel waves, and before Damen can turn around, she grabs his wrist with a tight squeeze. “I hope you don’t mind but I invited Jokaste.”</p><p>Damen’s mouth goes dry.</p><p>The last time he saw her, she had been crying. But before that, he used to kiss her in the early morning light, slow and sweet, the rest of the world still asleep. He used to hold her hand as she stressed about her job, the money she was making. He used to play with her hair after a long day, her head crooked into his shoulder, a firm, solid weight. He used to map his lips down her body in his bed, under the fall of water in the shower. He used to laugh into her mouth at parties as he admitted that she was the best thing that ever happened to him.</p><p>She’s the one who broke up with him six months ago after four years because she felt their relationship had run its course.</p><p>She’s the reason Damen has been struggling with his new book, despite the frantic, coaxing emails from his publishing house.</p><p>She’s just the woman Damen is still in love with.</p><p>Damen’s smile is frozen on his face. “That’s alright,” he says, his voice soft, faraway. “She’s your friend, too.”</p><p>Kashel squeezes him again. “Don’t leave, alright? No one’s seen much of you since…” She trails off.</p><p>Nikandros grips his elbow, a comforting gesture, as Kashel leaps to her feet to hug Jokaste, who hands her a present wrapped in dark green paper.</p><p>Jokaste is in her favourite red dress, her long, blonde hair in loose curls down her back. She’s wearing earrings Damen gifted her in Mellos. She probably doesn’t remember he did.</p><p>Jokaste’s lips are bright red, twisted with nerves when she meets his eyes.</p><p>She’s achingly beautiful. She’s everything Damen has ever wanted. He misses her.</p><p>“Hey,” Jokaste says, eyes bright, a little hesitant.</p><p>Damen smiles back, his smile coated with a dullness he can’t hide.  “Hey,” he says. “It’s been a while.”</p><p> *</p><p>On the last week of the semester, Nikandros visits Damen in his office while he’s marking papers.</p><p>Campus is almost empty. It’s close to the holidays, and most students have completed exams and assessments. Damen’s office is in the central building on upper campus; it faces the library, the lawn and the cafeteria. Unlike his office at home, there’s a lot of sound that filters in through this room. It provides a constant lull and stream of background noise as he’s doing work or consulting students. It’s disarmingly quiet now.</p><p>Nikandros has a bag full of something that smells delicious. Damen’s stomach gurgles, and he and Nikandros share a grin.</p><p>Nikandros sits in the good chair behind his desk and Damen takes the seat opposite, glad for a change, no matter how inconsequential.</p><p>Damen pries open the lid off the fried rice and beef and black bean stir fry with relish. “You’re my saviour,” he says earnestly. “I feel like I’ve been locked up in here for years.”</p><p>Nikandros nods to his desktop, licking the tips of his chopsticks. “Do you still have a lot left to do?”</p><p>“So much. But after Friday I’ll be free, so I’m just trying to power through.”</p><p>Nikandros nods again, and the topic of conversation gradually changes to his work, his in-laws, and his family back in Delpha.</p><p>Damen tries to pay attention as best as he can. The food is impeccable; it’s hard to concentrate on anything else.</p><p>Then Nikandros says, “So about last week.”</p><p>Damen hums, an instinctual drop of dread forming in his stomach. He’s known Nikandros his entire life, for a little over forty years now, and he had a feeling that, eventually, they would address Jokaste.</p><p>“It wasn’t so bad, right?” Nikandros probes, gently, eyes warm. It’s a very fatherly look, one Nikandros has used on his own daughter countless times.</p><p>“It wasn’t,” Damen agrees.</p><p>There had been no lingering awkwardness because it was easy — or convenient, rather — to ignore each other in a room full of people. But the ignoring <em>had </em>been jarring, initially. Over the years, Damen had become attuned to the scent of Jokaste’s shampoo —strawberry and pear — wafting over him as they pressed close to each other, her pinkie wrapping around his under the table, her ankle brushing his calf. Small, sure touches that had set Damen on fire and made him feel whole.</p><p>Last week, they hadn’t even sat next to each other, let alone near. Jokaste had taken the seat opposite Nikandros, so every time she looked up, she was always in Damen’s peripheral, unattainable like a drifting dream.</p><p>“Did you call her after?”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“Jokaste.”</p><p>“Why would I?” Damen says, taking a huge bite of baby corn.</p><p>Nikandros relaxes a little. Damen knows he must have worried, wondering whether Damen had called Jokaste while drunk, asking them to get back together. It’s humiliating to admit, even to himself, but in the silence of his bedroom at three in the morning, Damen had been tempted to.</p><p>Damen rummages through the bag to find some tissues and notices the two extra boxes. He taps the lid of one of them, sticky and warm.</p><p>“Is someone else coming over?”</p><p>“What?” Nikandros peers over to check. “Oh, nah. I’m going to Auguste’s after this, and his little brother is staying over for the summer holidays.”</p><p>“Ah,” Damen says, awkward. He genuinely doesn’t remember Auguste ever mentioning his little brother visiting and for a moment, feels terrible for not following up.</p><p>Auguste and Damen went to university together in Marlas. Back then, Damen had been deadest on managing his father’s company, but in his final year, Isander had been born. Kashel was already working at a law firm, a small company an hour away from her squalid flat, so they had decided it would be best if Damen stayed home to look after Isander. During Isander’s early months, Auguste had been a calm, helpful presence as he and Damen learnt how to burp and feed and change nappies. He was also simply good company for Damen, whose life had, overnight, narrowed to just three people: his son, Kashel, and Nikandros, who was miles away. Theomedes hadn’t even wanted to meet his grandson, and to this day, Damen holds a grudge over it. He won’t ever forget his father’s callousness during Kashel’s pregnancy, and then after it.</p><p>After graduation, Damen and Kashel moved to Ios, and Auguste had gone back to Arles. Communication grew sparse; long distance phone calls had been expensive, Damen couldn’t afford a computer to write emails, and eventually they drifted apart. Things are different now: Auguste reached out when Damen’s first book was published, and since then, they’ve been in regular correspondence. Last year, during Christmas, Auguste had moved to Ios on a temporary lease, working onsite the Ios branch of the tech company he worked for. They still don’t see each other as often as they should, but Damen is content knowing how close Auguste is now.</p><p>“You should see this kid,” Nikandros continues. “He looks like he could have been celebrity in another life. Sophie’s managed to convince herself that he must be a prince.”</p><p>Damen lets out an amused huff of air, a familiar curl of warmth settling into his chest as he thinks of his goddaughter. “Bring her over these holidays,” he says, wiping the oil off his mouth. “I miss her.”</p><p>Nikandros doesn’t mention the obvious: that Damen can — should — visit himself. All he does is smile. “Of course. God knows she’ll drive me insane.”</p><p>Damen laughs. He remembers Isander at ten: hyperactive, a little clingy, sensitive, much like Sophie. It was always a struggle trying to get him to do anything besides watch television all summer. It’s strange to think how much time has passed since then.</p><p>Quite suddenly, Damen feels old.</p><p>As they finish the last of their food — Damen ruefully scraping the bottom of the box — Nikandros says, “Come with me to Auguste’s. We won’t stay long, I promise.”</p><p>Damen shakes his head. “I can’t. I need to finish this fucking book.”</p><p>Nikandros gently dumps his and Damen’s boxes into the trashcan by the desk. His brow is furrowed with thought. After a stretch, Nikandros asks curiously, “Isn’t there anything else you can write about?”</p><p>Damen remains silent, contemplative as he lights a cigarette. Finally, he shrugs, contrite. In his heart, he knows the answer to that. To Nikandros he says, “I’m trying.”</p><p>*</p><p>Damen’s first novel had been an emotional, poignant romance about a young woman who falls in love with a different being across the galaxy.</p><p>At thirty-six, Damen had never considered writing as a living. He was working in the finance department at <em>Vallis and Sons</em>, with the expectation that he would eventually take over his father’s business. Kastor had already left to pursue his career in architecture, all the way in Marlas, and so Damen felt the pressure of ensuring Theomedes’ legacy. There had also been pressure to make sure Isander, sixteen and tumultuous, would get into a good college.</p><p>And then he’d met Jokaste.</p><p>They met at one of Kashel’s parties. Damen took one look at her — her straight, silk-like hair, so blonde it shone white under the fluorescent lights, the paleness of her eyes, her red lipstick, the sweat at her temple — and accidentally introduced himself, twice.</p><p>Their initial courtship had been a slow, sweet, diaphanous type thing. It had consisted of unhurried conversations, late night dinners, and Damen’s fingers brushing Jokaste’s as they’d walk side by side.</p><p>Their first date had been at the observatory. Jokaste had worn a large, fuzzy sweater and jeans so tight Damen had broken out in a sweat.</p><p>Halfway through the Apollo 11 exhibition, Jokaste’s hands had slipped into his. Despite being conscious of the sweat gathering on his palms and his rabbit-like pulse, Damen has grinned wide and maniacally.</p><p>The only time she let go of his hand that night was to peer into a rusty, dull telescope. As she aimed it at the open ceiling to look at the stars, her body loose with wonder, the idea had sprouted in Damen’s mind.</p><p>He spent the next year writing <em>Lightbulb</em>, a story of a woman who meets a human-like being raised on another planet, in another galaxy, when his spaceship crashes into her backyard. His planet is full of darkness, and he is immediately fascinated by the lightbulbs in her house. Every year, he vows to visit her, and she decorates her house with more and more lights. But a year on his planet is ten on Earth, and one day when he returns, it is to discover his lover, now withered and gossamer-thin, cannot remember him.</p><p><em>Lightbulb</em>’s dedication simply read: <em>For J</em>.</p><p>The reception of his debut novel had been warm enough for Damen to — for the first time — seriously consider becoming an author, fulltime.</p><p>As his presence on social media grew, there were more interviews, press junkies and articles; enough attention for Damen’s publishing house to send him an advanced grant to start his next novel.</p><p>As the year progressed, Jokaste grew increasingly frustrated with her own career. Her current job at a low-end graphic design company was frustrating, only made worse by an angry, tyrannical boss.</p><p><em>Boss Man</em> was the name of Damen’s second manuscript and the first draft had barely taken two months to write. This one, unlike <em>Lightbulb</em>, was not a romance, but a light-hearted, goofy comedy about a woman who wakes up in her dreadful boss’ body one morning and proceeds to create havoc in her workplace.</p><p>Jokaste face had been erratic, like a powerful monsoon, as she’d read the early draft; her laughter was barely contained as she gushed: “Damen, I love it.”</p><p><em>Boss Man</em> became a hit — not as big as <em>Lightbulb</em> had been, but its fluffy, sunny tone made it a favourite bestseller in various bookshops across the country and propelled Damen into a softened spotlight.</p><p>It falls apart months later. One evening, after dinner, Jokaste’s eyes are red-rimmed as she admits that she hasn’t been happy for a while. Nothing Damen had said had convinced her to stay.</p><p>She’d left that night, the door shutting behind her with a resounding <em>click. </em></p><p>That had been six months ago. Damen hasn’t managed to write a word since.</p><p>*</p><p>Summer arrives in Ios in its usual manner: unrelenting, and all at once.</p><p>The heat is oppressive. Damen’s yard dries up, the grass yellow and patching already. He wakes up every morning to see a fine layer of dust on his car and letterbox, despite the still air.</p><p>Historically, summertime is when Damen writes the most. His schedule becomes flexible enough that writing can take precedence over most things. By now, Damen has managed to adhere to a strict schedule. As he tells his students, writing isn’t just about writing, but dedication and drive.</p><p>Damen writes best in the mornings when his office is filled with sunlight, his desk a bright, glowing spot in the otherwise understated room. The afternoons are dedicated to working out and editing. Then in the evenings, he spends as much time as he can with Isander, with friends. For the last few months, Damen has spent evenings watching reruns of his favourite movies in the dark, fighting the urge to text Jokaste.</p><p>Isander comes back home three weeks into the summer holidays. Damen catches sight of the rusty red car parking in the driveway and the rush of happiness is dizzying.</p><p>When Isander steps in, Damen’s face splits. It’s like looking at himself from twenty years ago. Everything about Isander is like Damen; everyone has always said so, even when Isander had come out screeching and red-faced. The older Isander gets, the more Damen can acknowledge that the slope of his nose, the dark, bushy eyebrows, the curve of his mouth and the honey eyes are all carbon copies of his own features. The only thing Isander has yet to catch up on is his height; he’s still a few inches shorter.</p><p>Isander smiles with teeth. “Hey, Dad.”</p><p>Damen’s chest swells. This is a kind of love he’ll never be able to explain. He grips Isander tight, ruffles his hair. “Hey, you. Welcome home.”</p><p>Isander’s skin is darker, fresh from the sun. His hair is longer, too, like how Damen used to fashion it in his youth. He says, “Thanks.” His voice is tired, his face a little drawn, despite his smile. Isander used to attend Ios University with Damen, but this semester he had transferred to Isthima, on the coast.</p><p>“The weather there is crazy,” Isander says when Damen asks. He dumps his bags in the hall. Damen follows him to the kitchen. “Please tell me there’s food.”</p><p>Damen nods. “Nikandros sent some of his spanakopita for you. It’s in the fridge.”</p><p>Isander bounds to it in excitement. “God bless Uncle Nik,” he says, and Damen snorts.</p><p>Isander digs in with messy enthusiasm. Damen ruffles his hair again, grateful that his son has made it back home after another semester.</p><p>“How have <em>you</em> been? You finished your book?” Isander asks after Damen has asked him about every possible detail regarding Isthima.</p><p>“I’m good. The book is good, too.” Damen says, the lie falling smoothly from his tongue.</p><p>“Oh good,” Isander says, genuine and sweet. “Ma said you were a bit… uh, distant recently.”</p><p>Damen raises an eyebrow, picks up a flake of pastry off Isander’s plate with his pinkie.</p><p>Isander hedges on, “Are you and Jokaste still —”</p><p>“We’re still broken up.”</p><p>“Oh, sorry,” Isander says with a small wince. “The way Ma was talking about it, it seemed like you were trying to get back together.”</p><p>That… is not necessarily a lie, but Damen doesn’t appreciate Kashel gossiping about his love life to their son.</p><p>He says, “Tell your Ma to back off once in a while.”</p><p>“I value my life,” Isander says in an undertone. Then he sighs. “She wants me to spend a few weeks this summer with her and Vannes but I dunno.”</p><p>“How come?”</p><p>Isander shrugs, wets his lips. “I dunno,” he says again. “Vannes seems like kind of a bitch?” The way he says it makes it seem like a question, but Damen can see the surety in his gaze.</p><p>He laughs, considering. “She can be, yeah. But she can <em>also</em> be nice, and she’s your mother’s girlfriend. I want us all to get along.”</p><p>Isander shrugs again, an inelegant, boyish gesture. He opens his mouth to say something else when his phone <em>dings. </em>Isander quickly fishes it out of his pocket, grinning wide.</p><p>Damen assumes it must be Erasmus, one of Isander’s closest friends. He taps the edge of the phone as Isander types. “Glad to see this <em>is </em>working, then.”</p><p>Isander flushes, putting his phone down. His expression is sheepish, caught. “Sorry,” he says, and Damen knows he means it. “I just got so busy with school and stuff I… you know.” He trails off with a flapping hand.</p><p>Damen smiles. “I get it. But next semester you gotta call back once in a while. I get lonely here.”</p><p>Isander smiles. “I know, Dad. But I’m here now — and don’t worry, we’re going to have an awesome summer.”</p><p>Damen dips his chin, smiling, content for the first time in a long, long while. “I’ll hold you to that.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. protagonist.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>PLEASE READ!! (again):<br/>1. i added more tags so again, please read with caution.<br/>2. the feminisation is pretty mild though.<br/>3. there is too much food in this chapter. idk what i was thinking.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Damen wakes up to the torrid heat of midday. The sheets are warm and damp from his sweat, and the sunlight is too bright, filtering in through his blinds.</p><p>It’s almost noon. Damen hasn’t woken up this late since the night after Jokaste broke up with him. Already, he’s regretting it; there’s a steady thumping against his temples, and his mouth is dry, cottony.</p><p>Last night, he and Isander had stayed up watching a mediocre thriller movie on cable, the both of them not really paying attention to the melodramatic plot as they had talked and eaten their dinner of flat, flaky pita and loaded hummus. It had been the first time Damen had cooked in two months, a fact he was cautious of not mentioning to Isander, who had seemed relieved Damen was “getting better.”</p><p>As sleep leaves him, Damen knows he’s not going to write today, either. The excuses are already rolling through his head, one by one: <em>it’s too hot, I woke up too late, I need to spend time with Isander, the lawn needs mowing…</em></p><p>Ignoring the guilt in his stomach is nauseating, but Damen gets up, keen on starting his day and making breakfast for Isander. One thing Damen has missed about cooking is the structural element of it: the planning, prepping and actual cooking is a nice normality in his day. Damen doesn’t remember the last time he had breakfast, but he’s eager for it now, to show his son that he really is fine. Isander makes Damen want to be a better man; that’s always been the case.</p><p>Isander is still not up, which is normal. Isander is as far from a morning person as can be, unlike Damen. Damen has long since given up trying to get Isander to bed before four in the morning.</p><p>It takes longer than it should to get cooking. Damen still feels sluggish, his back aching, bones dull with wear. He doesn’t think he should feel so weary, so old at forty, but the tiredness seems to linger all the time.</p><p>Half an hour later, Damen has prepared a subpar breakfast of fruit, yoghurt, honey and bread. He hears Isander get up, the sound of the bathroom door opening, then closing, and he smiles to himself. It’s been so long since there was any kind of movement in the house. The quietness he had craved when Isander was a child, temperamental and just… noisy, in the way most kids are, had unnerved him the last few months. Damen doesn’t think he’s the kind of man who can be expected to thrive alone, the antithesis to how his father and brother are.</p><p>It’s a surprise to see Isander completely dressed when he strolls into the kitchen, blinking and squinting against the sunlight.</p><p>Isander is wearing a shirt Damen doesn’t recognise, but it’s nice: a rich burgundy colour that complements his colouring. The jeans are new, too, but well worn; the legs are fraying with wear.</p><p>“I forget how… <em>sunny</em> this house is.”</p><p>Damen doesn’t point out that Isander has only been gone for a little over five months. All he says is: “Where are you going?” just as his mind conjures the thought: <em>He’s so grown up. </em></p><p>Isander rubs his hand across his nose, a tic Damen has learnt throughout the years to mean that Isander is nervous. “I’m going out for brunch with a friend.”</p><p>Damen gestures to the platter of neatly cut fruit on the table. “There’s breakfast here.”</p><p>Isander doesn’t even glance at it; he pulls out his phone to check something. “Sorry,” he says, in that short, dismissive way teenagers do as he types. “I completely forgot to tell you I had plans.”</p><p>Damen has to fight the urge to say: <em>Already</em>? or worse — <em>Don’t leave me. </em></p><p>Neither is a sound option; Damen is aware that begging your twenty year old son to hang out with you is both pathetic and concerning. So he smiles, even as he feels disappointed. It’s Isander’s first day back. He’s probably eager to see friends he hasn’t seen in months. Damen has plenty of time to hang out with him.</p><p>Isander doesn’t linger. After picking up a lone grape off the plate, he gives Damen a wave, then a salute. “I’ll see you later, Dad.”</p><p>Damen nods. “See you,” he says, his smile fleeting.</p><p>Isander notices. He hovers for a while, unsure. Then his phone chimes again, and Isander smiles down at it. He says again, “See you, Dad.” He practically sprints out of the door. Damen tells himself it’s because he’s eager to see his friends, and not because he wants to get away from Damen.</p><p>Damen hears the car reverse in the driveway. He watches through the window as Isander drives off, windows down and music blaring through their empty street.</p><p>Once Isander has left, Damen is slow to go about the rest of his day. He puts away the platter into the fridge, foregoing his own breakfast, now that Isander isn’t here to reprimand him about it, then cleans up the kitchen half-heartedly.</p><p>He spends the entire day restless. He shifts between one menial task to the next, not quite completing anything: the laundry needs to be hung out, but the sun is relentless; lunch needs to be cooking, but Damen isn’t in the mood for more bread; the living room needs to be dusted, but he’s run out of clean wipes.</p><p>In the end, he settles himself in his office — not for writing, though. The bookshelves in his office are a mess, and by the time Damen has finished rearranging them, this time by genre, rather than author, the sun is setting, lighting up his house in a purple, pink haze.</p><p>It’s cool enough to go running, so Damen does. It’s been a while since he’s run outdoors; the wintery weather hadn’t made it ideal, but now, with the gravel thudding underneath his shoes, Damen realises how much he’s missed it.</p><p>He doesn’t make it home until an hour later; the sun has completely set, and the driveway is still empty.</p><p>Damen texts Isander: <em>Should I leave dinner out for you? </em></p><p>Isander’s response comes almost another hour later, while Damen is nursing a beer in the darkened living room, eating cheap, stale protein bars. It just reads: <em>no</em>.</p><p>Damen sighs. The first flare of annoyance lights his chest. It takes effort to tamper it down.</p><p>He keeps himself seated in his living room, watching the flickering light of the television without processing much. Jokaste is online on Facebook, and Damen has to leave the app, because the itch is underneath his fingertips to message her, especially now, late at night, when his loneliness is like a second character in the house.</p><p>The movie ends, and another starts in its place. Damen thinks it might be a sequel because the lead actress looks familiar.</p><p>He doesn’t get up to go to bed until three in the morning. Isander still isn’t back yet.</p><p>Damen already knows he’ll be too worn out to write tomorrow.</p><p>*</p><p>Isander doesn’t break the monotony Damen’s life has recently taken. It’s a disappointment to admit. Damen doesn’t know if he should be angry at himself for hoping Isander would magically fix everything in his life, or at Isander, who behaves like he’s a paying guest, free to come and go whenever he wishes. He knows Isander is an adult, but Damen doesn’t appreciate the lack of consideration on his son’s part.</p><p>Isander is <em>never </em>home. It irritates Damen more than he should. He wakes up every morning to see his son already gone, his room empty, the bed unmade, sheets rumpled, dirty clothes on the floor, so unlike the museum-esque display it had been for months, but not necessarily an improvement, either.</p><p>It’s the lack of consideration that frustrates Damen more than anything. Isander is not forthcoming about where he goes, who he goes with, and how long he’ll be gone for. Damen stays up later and later each night, hoping to see Isander for more than a few hurried moments.</p><p>As the days go on, Damen grapples on being overbearing, demanding Isander for information. But then he remembers that overbearing, difficult and harsh tone Theomedes used on Damen all the time, even when it wasn’t warranted, and he decides against it. It’s how he usually parents: <em>Did Dad do this to me as a kid? Yes? Great, then I’m definitely not doing it. </em></p><p>Two weeks later, on the sixteenth, Damen realises that it’s been exactly seven months since he’s written anything. The date looms over him all day, and finally, at two minutes to midnight, he sits down in his office to write.</p><p>The first thing he does when he turns on his desktop is watch a YouTube video, and he gets derailed for a whole forty minutes.</p><p>By the time it strikes one in the morning, Damen has written two concrete words: <em>Fuck me.</em></p><p>With a sigh, he closes the document.</p><p>*</p><p>Isander’s behaviour grows more irritable over the next coming days.</p><p>It’s such a drastic change, too. Isander isn’t an outgoing person. All through his childhood and adolescence he had been quiet, shy, a bit mellow. It used to worry Kashel a lot, but Damen had never had a problem with Isander’s reserved personality. He grew up in a household with two loud, brash personalities, and hated every minute of it. Isander’s timidness was an endearing change.</p><p>But over the next few days, he hears Isander’s booming laugh and vibrating conversations echo across the hallways, late into the dead of night. It drives Damen insane. Before, the quiet was a terrible, pressing thing inside the house, and now the constant bombarding of noise just as he falls asleep is, somehow, worse.</p><p>The fourth night in a row Damen fails to fall asleep and wake up in a timely manner, he tells Isander over lunch, “Just keep it down a bit, alright, buddy?”</p><p>It’s the first meal they’ve had together in a long time. Isander had failed to mention he’d be staying home today, and Damen hasn’t gone grocery shopping. The pizza they had ordered is hard, the cheese stiff, the sauce, a peculiar, tangy taste.</p><p>Isander puts down his slice. He goes red, the colour patchy on his skin. “You — can hear me?”</p><p>“Unfortunately,” Damen says with a small sigh.</p><p>Inexplicably, Isander colours further. “Shit, I didn’t — I’m sorry.” He looks horrified with himself, eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape, so Damen is quick to assure him.</p><p>“It’s fine,” he promises. He smiles. “I’m old, remember? I need more sleep than you, that’s all.”</p><p>“You’re not old,” Isander mumbles, as always, whenever Damen brings up his age. His shoulders are still tight, rounded in on himself, tense like a drawn string.</p><p>Damen understands after a moment. “I hear you laughing, Isander. That’s it.”</p><p>Damen’s suspicions are confirmed. Isander relaxes. “Right,” he says, still flushed, gaze breaking away once more and travelling to his phone.</p><p>But Damen continues to stare at him across the table, wondering.</p><p>*</p><p>On Thursday, Damen wakes up in a good mood. Isander hadn’t talked on the phone last night. Or maybe he had, but it must have been out on the alfresco, far from Damen’s room.</p><p>Either way, it isn’t why Damen wakes up joyous. It’s Thursday, and on Thursdays Damen can have his second cigarette of the week.</p><p>At first, he thinks of delaying it as long as he can. Sometimes, it’s gratifying to go through a whole day and have a cigarette right before he goes to the bed, the taste of smoke lingering in his mouth even as he sleeps.</p><p>On this particular Thursday, Damen has his cigarette early on, after breakfast, out in the garden. The sun is like a speckle in the sky, beaming down on him, over his bare arms and legs. Damen enjoys it; there’s something about the quiet stillness of summer that is feels like a homecoming for Damen.</p><p>His good mood follows him throughout the day like a shadow, even as he does mundane chores and goes to the gym.</p><p>His decision to drive the twenty something minutes to Nikandros’ house is completely spontaneous. Once he makes the familiar route, though, Damen is eager; he doesn’t find a single reason why he <em>shouldn’t </em>visit Nikandros and Sophie on a warm, Thursday afternoon.</p><p>Sophie barrels into his arms with a delighted shout when Damen steps through. Damen laughs when he sees her, arms opening wide, and drops a kiss on her forehead.</p><p>“How are you, sweetheart?”</p><p>She beams up at him. “I’m good, Uncle Damen.” She peers behind him. “Did Isander come too? I want to show him my skateboard.”</p><p>Damen ruffles her hair, “No, sorry. He’s out with a friend.”</p><p>She shrugs, unbothered. “I’ll just text him.”</p><p>Nikandros steps out into the hallway, looking harried. “<em>Sophie</em>. Please do not answer the door without me.”</p><p>“But I saw Uncle Damen’s car through the window!” Sophie says with a huff. “I’m not <em>stupid</em>, Dad. We got the stranger danger talk at school, too.”</p><p>Damen grins. She’s all Nikandros, which is why Nikandros is particularly protective of her, considering how much trouble he and Nikandros caused their parents in their childhood.</p><p>Nikandros sighs. He looks over her and gives Damen a nod, eyebrows raised. “Alright?”</p><p>“Yeah,” says Damen. “I just wanted to drop by. Is that cool?”</p><p>“Of course it is,” Nikandros says, as though the thought of it <em>not </em>being cool hadn’t even crossed his mind.</p><p>They go into the kitchen, which is nicer than Damen’s. Nikandros bought out his parent’s old home, so the interior, the décor is old-fashioned, and cluttered, but there’s something also incredibly cosy about it, too.</p><p>Sophie bounds outside to the backyard to skateboard, her blonde curls bouncing behind her.</p><p>“It’s all she’s been doing,” Nikandros says with a fond shake of his head, watching his daughter through the open French windows.</p><p>Damen watches, too, his chest full. He knows he should visit more, and the guilt that follows after that thought is desolating. He should have, at the very least, bought a gift for Sophie, some wine for Nikandros and Lykaios.</p><p>When did he get so <em>bad </em>at doing this?</p><p>It’s too late for lunch, and Damen ate before he went to the gym, but half an hour later, he, Sophie and Nikandros sit at the dining table, eating pasta and garlic bread.</p><p>It’s such a familiar scene, it settles Damen. Before, he and Jokaste used to stop by every Sunday for brunch for a few months, early on in their relationship. But then she had said it was too much of a hassle for her, and she’d stopped coming and after a while, so had Damen.</p><p>Damen watches Sophie scrape the last of her bowl. He can’t help smiling; she’s the most wonderful, sweetest person he knows. Isander, especially, is crazy about her; they all are. It’s… comforting to know that his best friend can raise something so beautiful.</p><p>“Let’s go ice skating,” Damen says, eager to make his goddaughter happy.</p><p>Sophie drops her fork with a clatter, brown eyes wide, mouth dropping opening. “<em>Really</em>? Can we really?”</p><p>Nikandros lets out a groan. “Damen.”</p><p>“<em>Please</em> Dad!” Sophie says, vibrating in her seat. “Can we go?”</p><p>“If you say no, Sophie and I can go by ourselves,” Damen says, grinning.</p><p>“You’re a menace. You too,” Nikandros directs the last part to Sophie with a wry grin.</p><p>Nikandros acquiesces eventually, after Sophie promises to clean her room every day from now on.</p><p>An hour later, Damen regrets everything; his bones aren’t meant to hit the ice so often in such a short amount of time. He sits down on the bench, sweating and watching Sophie twirl with ease.  </p><p>Nikandros grunts next to him, put out.</p><p>“I hate you.”</p><p>Damen laughs. “I hate me a bit too right now.”</p><p>The quiet afterwards is comforting. Damen pinches himself to relieve the urge to unload everything from his mind: <em>I’m worried I’ll never write another word again. I want Jokaste back. I can’t believe I didn’t make her happy. The house is always silent. All my son does is ignore me. I think Isander has a girlfriend. I don’t want him to grow up and leave me. </em></p><p>Sophie shouts, “Look Uncle Damen!” and twirls again.</p><p>Damen draws himself back to the present and laughs.</p><p>Right here, right now, he’s determined to be happy.</p><p>*</p><p>By Friday afternoon, the weather cools down significantly. The clouds are overcast, greying, despite the blue sky, and it’s nice enough to be bearable in the kitchen.</p><p>It’s where Damen decides to spend the majority of his day, crumbling butter between his fingertips, the benchtop covered in a thin film of flour.</p><p>The door opens as Damen is kneading the dough. He knows, logically, it has to be Isander, except it’s only six in the evening. The sun hasn’t even set yet.</p><p>“Hey,” Damen says, and he knows his surprise is evident.</p><p>Isander smiles, pushing up his sunglasses up, perching them atop his curls. “Hey. What are you doing?”</p><p>“Making garlic knots.”</p><p>Isander’s eyes light up. Damen shares his excitement; this particular recipe is his late mother’s, and it’s spectacular.</p><p>“Do you need help?”</p><p>Damen pauses, fingers coated in white. “Really?”</p><p>Isander shrugs, averting his gaze briefly, like a shy, embarrassed child on the playground, reprimanded by his teacher. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”</p><p>“Hmm,” says Damen, aware of the fact that Isander perhaps had <em>too </em>much to do lately, all the time. “Here.” He slides the dough across the bench, towards Isander. “I’ll start making the garlic butter.”</p><p>Together, they get to work, the sizzling of the pan, the preheated oven and the cars racing outside providing a soothing soundtrack to their cooking.</p><p>Isander is concentrated, tongue peeking out. His knots are wonky, misshapen, and he’s slower at rolling them up than Damen.</p><p>Still, Damen’s heart feels full. This is all he’s wanted the entire summer so far: Isander here, with him, in their house.</p><p>He’s aware it’s wrong and not necessarily healthy to feel so possessive about his son’s time, but Damen has always been obsessed with Isander. Isander is his first love. He knows that in on itself is a cliché, but it doesn’t stop it from being true.</p><p>Standing elbow to elbow, kneading dough, Damen presses a kiss to Isander’s forehead. “I’ve missed you.”</p><p>Isander’s smile is brittle, painted with guilt. “I know. I’ve missed you, too.” There’s red creeping up his neck. “I’m sorry I haven’t been hanging around here much.”</p><p>Damen nods, lets the apology wash over him like a balm. “It’s okay,” Damen says, then pauses. He speaks his next words carefully: “Your girlfriend must be very happy with you, though.”</p><p>Isander stills. The red explodes on his skin, patchy and warm, like a rash. Weakly, he says, “Girlfriend?”</p><p>Damen raises an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”</p><p>Isander looks down at the benchtop, considering. “You’re wrong.”</p><p>Damen blinks. “I am?” His brain kickstarts into overdrive, assuming the worst. He trusts Isander, he really does, but kids make stupid decisions all the time. Damen knows better than most: he got a girl he knew for a week, pregnant.</p><p>“Boyfriend,” Isander says.</p><p>It takes a while for the word to lodge into Damen’s head.</p><p>“Really.”</p><p>“Really.”</p><p>“I didn’t think you —”</p><p>“I didn’t think so either,” Isander says with a shrug. “But I mean, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”</p><p>“God, of course not,” Damen is quick to assure. “I mean, you know I’m —”</p><p>Isander laughs, cutting him off. “I do, Dad.” He gives a little smirk. “It’s mentioned in literally every interview you take.”</p><p>That much is true; his publishing house, especially, liked the <em>bisexual author</em> angle a lot.</p><p>“What’s he like?”</p><p>Isander keeps rolling. He’s slow to answer. “He’s…I can’t describe him adequately.” He shakes his head. “I was actually… I was thinking about bringing him over some time. I think you two would get along really well.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“He’s a huge fan. He freaked out when he found out you were my father.”</p><p>Damen huffs out an amused laugh. “Yeah? Then you should definitely invite him. My ego needs it at this point.”</p><p>Isander snorts, but his expression is pensive. “Maybe some time next week?”</p><p>It’s said casually enough, but Damen can see Isander’s shoulders, drawn tight.</p><p>He says softly, “This is important to you, isn’t it?”</p><p>All Isander says is: “Laurent’s really cool, Dad.”</p><p>Damen starts placing their knots on a tray, thinking. “Tell him to come over on Tuesday night.”</p><p>Isander smiles, then gives an offhanded shrug. “Sure.”</p><p>*</p><p>At the end of the week, Damen has less than a hundred words of incomprehensibleness. He has no story, not even a premise that he can build upon. Just meaningless snippets, bits of dialogue and a link to an article about strange, colourful buildings.</p><p>On Sunday, he officially fails to meet his extended deadline.</p><p>In the evening, he gets a call from his editor.</p><p>Makedon is <em>Lion Publishing</em>’s most seasoned editor. He’s gruff, reasonable and has an admirable no-nonsense attitude. He had been the eighth person Damen had sent his manuscript to.</p><p>Makedon had replied just a day later with: <em>This is special.</em></p><p>Damen owes him everything, which is why it twists his gut more than usual when he lets the call go to voicemail.</p><p>Makedon’s voice is gravely, sombre through the speakers. “I’m worried about you, Damen. Give me a call.”</p><p>Damen listens to it ten times, working up the courage to return the call.</p><p>He never does.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s raining the first time Laurent comes to their house. He’s wearing a smart, white button down, the material expensive. His shorts move like liquid. They’re cerulean, the same shade as his eyes, and so short, Damen can see the fine, golden hairs on his thighs.</p><p>Damen’s first impression of Laurent is this: <em>he’s made up of four colours.</em> Damen can map them out with his eyes: the gold in his hair, the blue of his eyes, the pink of his cheeks, and the white of his skin.</p><p>His features are aristocratic, androgynous, the line of his jaw straight, and his eyes are wide, hesitant. He looks young, maybe a few months older than Isander. His nervousness is apparent; he keeps twisting the ends of his shorts, pulling them up higher.</p><p>Damen smiles at him, hoping to ease his nerves.</p><p>Laurent attempts a small one of his own, tight lipped, and stiff.</p><p>Isander, next to him, is nervous too, but desperately trying to not show it. He gestures between Damen and Laurent.</p><p>“Dad, this is Laurent. Laurent, this is my dad.”</p><p>Isander pronounces Laurent’s name the Akielon way, with little emphasis on the <em>r. </em></p><p>Damen reaches to shake his hand. “Hey, Laurent,” he says, making sure to keep his pronunciation correct. “It’s nice to meet you.”</p><p>Laurent smiles, still without teeth. His handshake is firm. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>He’s very polite; Damen takes an appreciative note of it.</p><p>“I’m a huge fan. I’ve read everything you’ve written at least twenty times. I’m —” Laurent cuts himself off, the flush in his cheeks rising to the tips of his ears.</p><p>Damen lets his smile grow wider, lets himself look more approachable, grateful, the kind of smile he gives during interviews, photos. “Thank you, Laurent. That means a lot.”  </p><p>Isander hasn’t taken his eyes off of Laurent once, so Damen says, “Isander, why don’t you give Laurent a tour, and then come into the kitchen for dinner.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, sure.” Isander gestures out towards the hall. “I’ll show you down there first.”</p><p>Laurent nods, then hesitates, addressing Damen. “Do you need help with dinner, Mr Vallis?”</p><p>Damen shakes his head. “No, that’s alright. Go on.”</p><p>Laurent nods again, that same nervous smile surfacing. Then he turns to Isander, linking their fingers together as Isander guides them down the hall, towards the formal living room and the backyard.</p><p>Damen goes back to the kitchen, setting up the table. He had originally — after much, <em>much </em>consultation with Isander — wanted to have a barbeque outside, under the sun. Isander had even bought candles to decorate the mostly unused table in the alfresco. The weather this morning had been unexpected, though.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for Isander and Laurent to come back. As they enter the kitchen, talking to each other in low voices, Damen is struck by how well they fit together. Isander’s features are sweet, his long nose and jaw typical of Southern Akielons. Laurent’s colouring and softness complements everything about Isander, physically. They both look… like they fit. It’s nice.</p><p>“What did you think?”</p><p>“Oh, it’s — it was great,” Laurent says. He says the next part bitingly, like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to. “I like your office.”</p><p>Damen smiles. “Cleaner than Isander’s room, right?”</p><p>“<em>Dad</em>.”</p><p>“Sorry. Couldn’t resist. That’s my job here tonight, isn’t it? To consistently embarrass you?”</p><p>He smiles at Isander’s muttered <em>oh my god </em>and points to the table. “Come, sit down.”</p><p>Laurent gazes at everything set up on the table: the moussaka, the chickpea salad, and the meatballs with wide eyes. “Wow. This is — Thank you.”</p><p>Isander pulls Laurent’s chair for him as they sit down. Laurent smiles at him, looking for the first time, relaxed.</p><p>Damen serves the food, Laurent continuously thanking him, still a little nervous.</p><p>It’s strange, Damen thinks, to be in this role: to be the father the boyfriend is desperately trying to impress. He remembers himself meeting Kashel’s parents, how terrified he’d been to tell them that he was fathering their grandson.</p><p>Damen doesn’t want Laurent to be terrified of him.</p><p>Conversation is slow to start. Damen asks the basics and is careful to make sure it doesn’t sound like an interrogation.</p><p>Laurent answers everything with that same saccharine sweetness, polite to the core.</p><p>He was initially going to study Literature in Ios, but he decided, instead, to go to Isthima for their double degree program in Media and Literature.</p><p>“And it’s closer to my brother,” Laurent says.</p><p>Laurent and Isander met at university, but neither offer any other information, even when Damen prods.</p><p>Laurent takes two servings of moussaka as he talks about how he’s still adjusting to Akielos’ weather, his classes and how much he likes the Akielon transport system.</p><p>Laurent is… great. There’s nothing untoward about him. He seems just like any other twenty year old, shy, fumbling and still unsure of himself.</p><p>Dinner ends on a pleasant note. Damen hasn’t eaten this much in a while, caught up in conversing with Laurent and trying to get to know him better. Isander has barely eaten, though, his eyes glued to Laurent as he talks, the picture of a smitten boyfriend.</p><p>It reminds Damen of himself with Jokaste, strangely enough. He’d been — <em>is </em>— completely gone for her. He never could get enough of her beauty, how she just… made the entire room fade away.</p><p>Laurent’s cheeks are still pink, and it makes his eyes look brighter. He gives Damen another smile; there’s sauce on his lips.</p><p>Laurent offers to clean up after dinner, is insistent about it, but Damen waves him off again.</p><p>For dessert, Isander brings out ice cream for himself and Laurent from the freezer. They both head out to the alfresco. Damen sees Laurent’s hand come up to rest on the small of Isander’s back.</p><p>The rain hasn’t stopped pouring; it pelts down against the closed glass as Damen puts away the dishes, packs up the leftovers.</p><p>Isander approaches him just as he’s finishing up. “So? What did you think?”</p><p>Damen ruffles Isander’s hair, which is styled with mousse. “I like him.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Isander smiles, teeth white.</p><p>“Yeah,” Damen says. “He’s nice. Sweet. Seems like a good kid.”</p><p>“He is,” Isander says, his eyes already drifting away out into the alfresco, where Laurent’s shadow is visible.</p><p>Later, as Damen leaves his office to head to bed, he sees them both huddled on the tearing sofa on the alfresco, despite the chill in the air.</p><p>Isander’s hand is on the meat of Laurent’s bare thigh, stroking over it as he kisses him. Laurent’s fingers are buried in Isander’s hair. He practically melts in Isander’s grip.</p><p>Laurent makes a small noise, and Damen keeps walking, smiling to himself.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>lmk your thoughts!! im on tumblr @goldencuffs</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. setting.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once a month, Damen and Isander head down to Kingsmeet to have an awkward, long dinner at Theomedes’ house. It’s, without a doubt, the worst day in Damen’s calendar.</p><p>When Isander had moved to Isthima, the trips had, mercifully, been put on hold. Damen and Theomedes’ relationship had fractured years ago, and neither had any desire to attempt to fix it. It was only because of Isander that Damen had allowed Theomedes access to a small sliver of their lives.</p><p>A few months after Isander had turned sixteen, Theomedes had reached out to Damen, interested, for the first time, in getting to know his grandson. Damen had refused; Kashel hadn’t wanted to get into it. But Isander had been old enough to understand and assess the situation himself, so Damen, after much deliberation and late nights, had let him make the decision of whether or not he wanted to get to know his paternal grandfather.</p><p>Isander, fueled by curiosity, had wanted to. Over the phone, Damen had said to Theomedes, “If you say <em>anything </em>to my son that upsets him — one single word —”</p><p>Theomedes had cut him off, as usual. In a bored tone, he said, “I expect you and my grandson to be here at eight sharp.”</p><p>Damen had anticipated that first dinner to end in yelling, biting words, and a promise to never see Theomedes again. To Damen’s surprise — and dismay — Isander and Theomedes had gotten along very well.</p><p>Theomedes had called Isander: “A fine young gentleman.”  Then in an undertone, to Damen, had said, “No doubt his mother’s influence.”</p><p>In the car, afterwards, Isander had shrugged and said, “He’s okay.”</p><p><em>Okay </em>was a word Damen had never used to describe Theomedes, even when he was feeling particularly generous. It was then that Damen had come to the painful conclusion that Theomedes was going to be a regularity in his life once more.</p><p>Dinner this month falls on a sticky, humid Thursday night.</p><p>Isander is the one who drives, now; Damen has found that if he has to, then the night starts off hostile form the moment they enter.</p><p>They spend the hour long drive with the windows down, the air warm on their faces, listening to Isander’s favourite podcast — a true crime documentary series called <em>Still Waters.</em></p><p>They pull in at Theomedes’ quiet drive through. Seeing Theomedes’ green, flourishing lawn ignites an irrational spark of anger in Damen’s gut.</p><p>Kingsmeet is one of Akielos’ largest cities. It’s always noisy, bright, and its clubs are renowned all over the continent. It’s also a historic city; half of its buildings are made of crumbling white stone and ionic pillars. Little of it has changed for hundreds of years, especially the houses, with their large, stone courtyards and dented walls.</p><p>Theomedes’ house — Damen’s childhood home — is made the same way, with wide, sweeping arches and colourful mosaic tiles.</p><p>Theomedes shakes Isander’s hand when they enter. There’s no handshake for Damen, or even a nod.</p><p>His father has always been a handsome man: strong, tall, well-built, with thick, wavy hair and large, dark eyes. All of that stands true even now, despite his grey, thinning hair and beard.</p><p>Theomedes looks up and down Isander’s body with distaste. “You’re not eating enough.”</p><p>Isander smiles, rolls his eyes — a gesture Damen would never be able to get away with, as a teenager or even now— and says, “I’m eating plenty, Grandad. Dad’s been cooking enough for four families.”</p><p>“Has he?” Theomedes says, flinty eyes settling on Damen. “I’m sure it’s all been inedible.”</p><p>“Well —”</p><p>“Come in. You’re three minutes late. Your dinner is probably cold by now.” He turns on his heel, walking down past the formal living room, towards the kitchen.</p><p>Damen and Isander share a look, although Damen is sure his is irater than his son’s.</p><p>The kitchen is made up of white marble, gleaming countertops and a dining table that can seat sixteen people. Damen has horrid memories of sitting here, elbows tucked, tie strangling his neck as his father’s business associates gathered around him.</p><p>Dinner is already set: there are three plates full of steak, roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. Damen knows Theomedes doesn’t cook: their entire life had been prepackaged meals and greasy food from local, questionable diners after his mother, Egeria, had died.</p><p>When Theomedes has retired two years ago, Kastor had offered to hire an inhouse chef for Theomedes. Damen had thought it was a colossal waste of money; Theomedes had fed them subpar, sometimes truly awful food, with little guilt on his subconscious. Damen had no issues with Theomedes eating oily gyros for the rest of his life.  </p><p>Damen sits down, his back already protesting against the hard-backed wood. Everything on his plate looks wonderful — but that doesn’t mean he approves of the chef.</p><p>The steak is too well done. Damen prefers his meat medium rare, something Theomedes knows.</p><p>Across him, Isander digs into his steak with an enthusiasm that is insulting.</p><p>As usual, Damen is largely ignored, except for a few well-placed comments about his eating habits, courtesy of Theomedes.</p><p>Isander is the one who keeps conversation steady. He asks how Theomedes has been spending his time — golfing and drinking, apparently, so nothing different from his norm — and whether he likes his new car. (He doesn’t, but why would he? It was only bought by Kastor’s hard earned money).</p><p>Isander recounts his semester at Isthima, and how nice it is to attend a university that overlooks the ocean and a roommate who is tidy.</p><p>It’s a surprise when Isander mentions Laurent. Damen doesn’t know why; it could be the fact that throughout his whole life, Damen has never once brought up his romantic pursuits with Theomedes. He hadn’t even told his father about Jokaste.</p><p>“Laurent?” Like Isander, Theomedes pronounces it incorrectly. He also says it with a sneer, his lips curdling. “A Veretian?”</p><p>Isander bristles. Tersely, he says, “Yes.”</p><p>“Dad,” Damen warns.</p><p>Theomedes doesn’t flinch at the displeasure colouring their faces and their tones. He shakes his head slowly, somberly. “Veretians are no good. They’re crooks. Just look at their history: constantly stealing, looting from other countries. Delpha is a prime example.”</p><p>“Delpha was originally Veretian land that <em>we </em>invaded,” Damen reminds him.</p><p>Theomedes ignores him. “The whole lot of them are wicked. Settle down with a nice Akielon — man or woman. It’ll save you a lot of grief.”</p><p>Isander’s mouth drops open, affronted.</p><p>“Don’t listen to him,” Damen tells him. To Theomedes he says, “I’ve met Laurent, and he’s wonderful, in spite of your backward stereotypes and assumptions.”</p><p>“And you’re such a competent judge of character, yes?”</p><p>“If this is about Kashel —”</p><p>“Is that a new fridge, Grandad?” Isander cuts in, pointing to the large, bulky piece of metal in the far corner.</p><p>“Hmm? Oh, yes, my buddy from the country club gifted it to me. It’s one of those voice command ones.”</p><p>“Cool,” says Isander.</p><p>Damen fades into the background again, grateful for the lack of attention. He’s almost done; they just have to get through dessert, and then they can go home… and count down the days until they have to do this all again.</p><p>But it seems Theomedes is intent on being difficult tonight. he stares at Damen and says, “When’s your next book coming out then?”</p><p>Damen stabs at his broccoli. “Why does it matter? You’re not going to read it.”</p><p>“Yes, well, I still think what you’re doing is a waste of time. <em>Vallis and Sons </em>is now being run by someone who isn’t a Vallis. My poor father must be rolling in his grave.”</p><p>“You do realise Kastor could be running it too, right? Does he get these pleasant conversations as well?”</p><p>“At least Kastor is doing something worthwhile. Did you know he was responsible for the design of the new shopping centre in —”</p><p>“Dad’s writing is brilliant. You’re missing out,” Isander says, his tone unyielding. His expression is fierce. “Especially his new book.”</p><p>Isander hasn’t read a single one of Damen’s novels. Damen knows he’s tried to, for Damen’s sake, but Isander has never been an avid reader, and he holds a particular distaste for magical realism.</p><p>The lie is sweet, though. Damen squeezes Isander’s hand under the table and lets the rest of the evening wash over him.</p><p>*</p><p>Damen finally calls Makedon back three days later.</p><p>Makedon greets him with minimal cheer. “What the hell, Damen.”</p><p>Damen winces, picking at his shorts as he reclines on the chaise lounge in his living room because Isander is being too loud again; now that Damen knows about Laurent, all their conversations have been on speaker phone, for whatever reason.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Makedon sighs. “You’ve caused a lot of grief and headaches over here.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“And I’m going to have to cut ten percent of your grant for missing the deadline.”</p><p>“That’s fair.”</p><p>“You’re lucky you’re not being sued for breaching your contract terms — it’s happened before and it’s not pretty.”</p><p>Damen sighs. “I’m really sorry.”</p><p>“What’s going on, Damen? Is everything alright with you, your family?”</p><p>“I — yeah. Everything’s fine,” Damen says. He’s aware of how stupid — concerning, even — it would be to say: <em>My girlfriend broke up with me and I hate myself. </em>Instead, he says. “My story is just… stuck right now.”</p><p>“Writer’s block?”</p><p>“I — yes.” It feels inadequate to sum up what he’s going through with those two unassuming words.</p><p>“Damen,” Makedon’s sigh is frustrated and concerned all at once. “You can’t have a career in writing if you’re going to rely on a muse every time. It’s about…”</p><p>“Dedication and discipline,” Damen says. “I know. I teach it, Makedon.”</p><p>“Well, then, follow your own advice.”</p><p>Damen swallows. “Yeah, I know.”</p><p>“Look. I can give you one more month for this third book.”</p><p>“A month isn’t enough time to —”</p><p>Makedon talks over him. “Just a rough draft, Damen. I need a story idea. Something I know that will sell. Thankfully, I know your writing is competent, so it’s really just the idea I need. At least thirty thousand words.”</p><p>Damen can hear Laurent laughing. Then, Isander says something that makes him laugh louder. It’s a sweet sound.</p><p>“Damen?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m listening.” He looks out to the yard, thinking. “I — Yes. I can do that.” He sounds more confident than he feels.</p><p>“Good. Good,” Makedon says, voice warming up. “We’re all rooting for you here, Damen.”</p><p>Laurent laughs again.</p><p>“Thanks,” says Damen, feeling hollow.</p><p>*</p><p>The text from Auguste, late into the night, is unexpected, a little jarring.</p><p>It reads: <em>Isander is dating Laurent???</em></p><p>Damen squints at it; his office is dark, and the light from his phone is too bright. Auguste’s name on his phone is unanticipated. The last time they texted was at the beginning of the year, about Jord’s birthday party. Damen had never bothered to reply to Auguste’s <em>I’m here. </em></p><p>Damen rereads the current text, confused. He’s not sure how Auguste knows about Isander and Laurent, or why it particularly matters to him.</p><p>He texts back: <em>Yes? </em></p><p>Auguste’s reply is instant: <em>My little brother and your son?? </em></p><p>Damen pauses, now fully alert.</p><p><em>Oh,</em> he thinks. His eyes widen. The revelation is surprising, although it shouldn’t be; now that he thinks about it, Laurent’s colouring and height are similar to Auguste’s, except Auguste’s eyes are more green than blue.</p><p>He also thinks of what Nikandros said all those weeks ago, about Auguste’s brother visiting Ios — and then further back, to Auguste in first year of university, who had just left his younger baby brother at home with his parents.</p><p>The fact that that baby is now Laurent is… well, it’s pretty amazing; it’s a wonderful way to be connected to an old friend.</p><p>Damen writes back: <em>Holy shit.</em></p><p>There’s a fifteen minute lull before Auguste texts back: <em>Bring Isander to my party next week. </em></p><p>Damen’s stomach turns immediately. It’s a knee jerk reaction to going anywhere, seeing people.</p><p>There’s already a flurry of excuses running through his head.</p><p>He writes back: <em>I’ll try to make it.</em></p><p>Auguste responds with: <em>Make sure you try hard</em><em>. Isander already said yes.</em></p><p>Fuck, thinks Damen.</p><p>*</p><p>Damen has to drink before going to Auguste’s. As he lets the scotch go down his throat, he wonders when he became like this, when meeting friends made him feel like he’s preparing for war.</p><p>Right as they leave, Isander takes a look at Damen’s flushed face and red-rimmed eyes and says, “I’ll drive.”</p><p>The music greets them, obnoxious and thudding, as they walk up the pavement to Auguste’s townhouse. Auguste lives in one of the most well-known, busiest suburbs in southern Ios, right on the tip of the coast, where the smell of saltwater is always present in the air, so perhaps his neighbours are very much used to the noise.</p><p>It makes Damen grimace; he feels, briefly, like a crotchety old man complaining about the party the teenagers down the block are holding.</p><p>Auguste answers the door. He looks much the same as he did the last time Damen saw him. Damen doesn’t know why that’s such a relief: somehow it felt like everything and everyone around him had changed, except for himself, stuck in his own small corner, watching the world go by.</p><p>Auguste’s golden hair is put up in a haphazard bun, his baby hair frizzing in the air, and his beard is scruffy, unkempt. The blue of his eyes is bright, elated. Like Damen, there’s white peeking through the hairs by his temple, and even some on his beard. Looking at him, Damen’s chest lightens. He also can’t believe he didn’t realise Auguste and Laurent were related: the shape of their nose, the cut of his cheekbone, their eyes, it’s all the same. Auguste’s skin is darker though, and there are freckles all over his face, particularly on his nose and forehead.</p><p>“Hey!” Auguste says, smiling. His teeth overcrowd his smile, but it’s a charming feature. He reaches forward to squeeze Isander in his arms.</p><p>Isander hugs back, a little awkward, a little stiff. “Hey, Auguste.”</p><p>“God, look at you. This is making me feel old as fuck.”</p><p>Damen laughs. Isander murmurs something in response that Damen can’t quite catch over the music and slips inside past Auguste.</p><p>Then Damen and Auguste hug, reaching over the threshold to hold reach each other. Auguste slaps his back and says, “You good, man?”</p><p>Damen wonders if his desolation is now always present on his face, like his wrinkles or his dimple.</p><p>“Great!” He says with more cheer than necessary. “And you?”</p><p>Auguste laughs again. “I’m great too.”</p><p>It’s not quite awkward, but there’s a cloying tension in the air. Damen wonders if he’s the only one who realises it, because Auguste is still smiling, his body loose and easy.</p><p>Auguste’s townhouse is quintessential of Akielon architecture. The colourful tiles are glossy and patterned with geometric shapes, and the walls are chalky, painted a dark blue colour that is too dark, smothering. There are also a number of useless, unnecessary rooms, decorated minimally. One of the rooms has one squashed couch, the arm of it ripped enough so the foam inside is exposed. But it’s nice: it’s the kind of living space any bachelor would thrive in.</p><p>There aren’t many people inside, but the noise, the music, the chatter, all of it is overwhelming to Damen, who has become too complacent with his own solitude. The only people Damen recognises are Jord and Lazar, who are old friends of Auguste’s. Damen has hung out with them several times over the last twenty years or so. They’re good men, good company.</p><p>They make small talk for a while, and then Damen sequesters himself in the kitchen, where the drinks are flowing at a steady pace. His scotch is wearing off and he needs more if he’s going to… survive this, although that feels like a terrible way to phrase it.</p><p>Auguste has mediocre alcohol, and not much of it. Damen eventually picks a beer from the cooler, from a brand he doesn’t recognise.</p><p>Auguste finds him there, as Damen is drinking his third beer, his fourth drink overall.</p><p>Damen is determined to get drunk, and he’s halfway there right now. His body and face feel flushed, warm, and his vision is softening around the edges.</p><p>Auguste grabs a beer for himself and perches himself on the kitchen counter that Damen is leaning up against.</p><p>“It’s crazy, huh? Isander and Laurent.” Auguste says with a little laugh.</p><p>“Weird, right?” Damen agrees. “I mean — good for them. But still weird.”</p><p>Auguste laughs again, easy. “I know. When Laurent first mentioned Isander, I thought it was some coincidence, but then Isander came over and… I couldn’t believe it. It was just so odd.”</p><p>Damen snorts, remembering the dinner at his own house.</p><p>“But how have you been?”  Auguste asks. “How have you been spending your time?”</p><p>Damen swallows another gulp of his beer, ruminating on the answer. “I’m writing my third novel.”</p><p>“Hey!” Auguste cheers, looking pleased. He claps Damen on his back again. “Holy shit, that’s great! All I’ve been doing is teaching interns how to input numbers into our database.”</p><p>Damen laughs. “It’s not that exciting. I mean, it’s getting there.”</p><p>Before there’s a chance for their conversation to inevitably wean, Damen sees the door open. A rush of warm air enters, and then Laurent. He’s wearing the same shorts as the other day, except they seem shorter, somehow. They seem to be hiked up higher. His shirt is sheer and white: it covers his whole torso, up until his neck and wrists, but Damen can still see the skin under his shirt, and embarrassingly, his nipples, too.</p><p>He watches Laurent weave around the living room, greeting all of Auguste’s friends with familiarity. Laurent leans over the couch to kiss them all on the cheek, smile friendly, open. He kisses Lazar twice, and then laughs loudly at something he says.</p><p>Isander is staring openly at Laurent, flushed, from his own seat in the living room. Laurent rushes over to him and kisses him on the mouth wetly.  </p><p>Damen is aware of the fact that he is drunk, and that he is staring. But he can’t help it; his brain is too slow to assess how strange he’s being. His attention is caught and held by the disturbed skin along Laurent’s jaw, red and marked because of Jord’s stubble. He wonders if Laurent will kiss his cheek too.</p><p>Damen’s beard is growing out. Laurent’s skin seems sensitive. Laurent’s jaw would only grow redder if it met Damen’s thick hair.</p><p>Damen grips the neck of his bottle as Laurent finally makes his way over into the kitchen.</p><p>Laurent sees Damen already staring, but he doesn’t seem perturbed by it. Instead he seems more determined to come over. He stops a few feet from Damen.</p><p>Laurent doesn’t kiss his cheek. He says, “Hi, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>“Hey,” Damen says, voice scratchy. Laurent’s shirt is even more transparent up close.</p><p>Laurent says, “How are you?”</p><p>“Good. And you?”</p><p>“Good,” says Laurent, infuriatingly polite. He gives Damen one more glance, and then he turns to Auguste with a cool look. “Your shirt is terrible.”</p><p>Auguste rolls his eyes and jumps off the counter. “Yours is worse.”</p><p>Damen feels hot. “Give me a sec,” he says, skirting around the both of them.</p><p>The living room is crowded and dark. It’s packed, filled with people Damen has no interest in talking to.</p><p>He steps out onto the balcony.</p><p>It’s small, barely three feet in length, but empty. The air is warm but at least it’s not still; the breeze teases Damen’s curls.</p><p>Damen just hates how he’s already thinking of leaving. Everything feels like it takes a herculean effort now, even things like this, that should make him happy on paper.</p><p>Damen has just lit his cigarette — it’s Saturday: this is his last one for the week — when Laurent enters the balcony, cheeks now flushed with drink.</p><p>“Hi, Mr Vallis,” he says again. “Is it cool if I join you?”</p><p>Damen hesitates, then nods after some deliberation. “Yeah, it’s fine.”</p><p>Laurent comes up next to him, hands pressed flat to the wooden railing, shoulder almost brushing against Damen’s. The balcony suddenly seems so much smaller.</p><p>“Can I have one?” Laurent gestures to his cigarette.</p><p>Damen pauses. Instinctively, he’s tempted to reprimand Laurent for being too young to smoke, and then realises that Laurent isn’t his son, and more importantly, an adult.</p><p>He hands a cigarette to Laurent, who looks at Damen expectantly.  </p><p>Damen lights up a cigarette for Laurent. Laurent’s fingers brush against his as he takes it. Damen watches him take a drag. Laurent has nice skin, he thinks, like a distant afterthought: lily-white, unblemished, free from any marks or scars, a rarity so far down in Akielos.</p><p>“Don’t tell Auguste,” Laurent says, smiling around the smoke billowing over his mouth.</p><p>Damen smiles back, even though uneasiness lingers in his gut; somehow, having a secret, even as innocuous as this one, with his son’s boyfriend seems inappropriate, like Laurent’s shirt.</p><p>Laurent says, “You don’t like the party.”</p><p>“I do,” Damen says in surprise.</p><p>Laurent smiles again, though it’s heavily subdued. “You don’t have to lie to me, Mr Vallis. I won’t be offended.” He takes another drag. “You looked ready to run away, earlier.”</p><p>“Am I that obvious?”</p><p>Laurent shrugs. “Kind of. If you’re paying attention.”</p><p>“Were you?” Damen says. “Paying attention to me?” he clarifies.</p><p>Laurent doesn’t answer. He has a small, brown spot under his jaw, so faint it’s practically invisible.</p><p>Details, Damen thinks. He’s a writer: he’s always looking for details.</p><p>“I always am,” Laurent says, and Damen has to pull himself back in the conversation, to keep himself drifting off into his own thoughts. “You know, the only reason I was thinking of attending Ios was because of your writing workshop.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Damen says. “You write?”</p><p>“A little. Here and there.” Laurent’s pink mouth purses around his cigarette, and his shrug is a nervous, jerky movement.</p><p>“Well. Thank you. I’m flattered.”</p><p>“You say that a lot.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Well. I mean it.”</p><p>The smoke is clearing his head. He gives Laurent a smile, one that Laurent shyly returns.</p><p>Damen knows he shouldn’t, but he keeps watching Laurent. It’s the shirt, he thinks. He’s never seen anything like it. It covers so much and so little as well. He can’t believe Laurent would wear something like it — then again, he supposes he doesn’t know Laurent very well.</p><p>He takes another drag, trying to just enjoy the taste of the smoke.</p><p>Eventually, Laurent stubs out his cigarette. “You’re my favourite. I just wanted to tell you that.”</p><p>Bizarrely, it comes out like a confession, a set of words someone would whisper into the night.</p><p>Kind of like right now.</p><p>Damen swallows. Despite himself, he says again, “Thank you. That… means a lot.”</p><p>Laurent pushes himself off of the wooden railing. “You can leave if you want. Auguste wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>Damen doesn’t end up leaving. He stays until the party dwindles, trying to quiet his mind, and watching Laurent and Isander share kisses in the corner, each more brazen than the last.</p><p>Isander’s gaze, when they meet, is happy, relaxed. It’s good to see him like this, carefree, blissful, as every twenty year old should be.</p><p>But it’s Laurent’s gaze that pins Damen to his seat, that makes his nape prickle.</p><p>His steady, sapphire gaze is uncomfortable, but Damen can’t look away — not until Isander kisses Laurent’s jaw, where Damen now knows a mole is.</p><p>Laurent’s gaze breaks away, and he smiles at Isander, soft and sweet.</p><p>Damen takes a sip of his beer and then turns back to Auguste.</p><p>*</p><p>Jokaste hadn’t been the last person to sleep over, but she had slept over one last time, just two weeks before their breakup.</p><p>She had already been distant and snappy by then — pulling herself away.</p><p>The weekend after they broke up, Nikandros and Kashel had come over, with far too much takeaway and beer. They had spent the next two days on Damen’s living room floor, Isander hovering, worried, as he simultaneously studied for his exams and checked up on Damen.</p><p>That’s how Damen had spent his first weekend as a single man in four years: drunk and full of spicy dumplings.</p><p>Halfway through the summer, Laurent starts sleeping over almost every day: according to Isander, Laurent’s bed in his apartment is too small for the both of them. Which is information Damen could do without, in all honesty.</p><p>But it’s strange, a little daunting, to get used to another presence in the house: their footsteps, their space, their voice.</p><p>Damen soon learns that, unlike Isander, Laurent is an early riser. Sometimes, Damen wakes up to find Laurent already up, sitting in the shade of the alfresco, bare legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back as he stares at the sky.</p><p>Damen usually leaves him alone: once he asked whether Laurent had wanted breakfast; Laurent had declined. That was as far they had interacted with each other in the mornings. Mostly, Damen keeps out of the way, trying to write is in his office.</p><p>Today, Damen manages to wake up before Laurent, but not by much. As he boots up his computer, Laurent walks past his office, then turns back, lingering in the doorway. He’s wearing a pair of mismatched pyjamas that are too big for his slender frame, feet bare against the hardwood floor.</p><p>Laurent’s hair is shining in the early morning lighting. He’s still sleep rumpled. His hair is matted at the nape, and there’s a mark on his cheek, an indent left from his pillow.</p><p>“Morning,” says Damen. “How are you?”</p><p>Laurent’s response is shy, marred by his awkwardness. “I’m good. And you, sir?”</p><p>Damen smiles. “Sleep deprived.”</p><p>Laurent laughs as his lame joke, his teeth straight and lovely. “Are you writing?”</p><p>“Trying to.”</p><p>Laurent grants him another smile. “Good luck, Mr Vallis,” he says, before he keeps walking down the hallway, out to the garden.</p><p>Damen’s draft is unexceptional. It’s barely three hundred words, based on an outline he’d scribbled into his notebook last week. The idea had come to him late into the night, randomly, as he’d been cleaning up after Isander. He thinks the stagnancy had finally kickstarted his brain.</p><p>Still, his idea is a small seed, nothing particularly special. He’s worried if he tells Makedon about it, it’ll be scrapped.</p><p>So far, though, Damen hates his draft. If he thinks about it too much, he knows it will be stalled all over again. It’s part of why Damen decides to do something different today. It’s also mainly a form of procrastination. His eyes drift past his screen, to the window which overlooks the alfresco. Laurent is, as is now routine, on the sofa, legs tucked under him as he looks out onto the garden.</p><p>It’s just past ten in the morning now, and Damen knows Isander won’t be up for a while For whatever reason, Laurent refuses to leave in the morning; instead, he waits until Isander wakes up so they can have breakfast together in the backyard, and then they leave, often without informing Damen, staying out until late at night.</p><p>Damen gets up and walks to the alfresco. Laurent is now on his phone, scrolling through Instagram.</p><p>“Hey,” Damen says. “Do you want to help me with breakfast?”</p><p>Laurent looks up from his phone. “Oh. I — yes, sure.”</p><p>Damen frowns. “You don’t have to.”</p><p>“No! I want to.”</p><p>Laurent gets up quickly, light on his feet. He pushes back his hair, giving Damen a timid look.</p><p>Damen nods and leads them back down the hallway.</p><p>They go into the kitchen together, Laurent trailing after him, that same wide-eyed nervousness lingering on his face.</p><p>“I’m in the mood for pancakes,” Damen says. “You?”</p><p>“Y-Yes. That’s fine, sir.”</p><p>It’s on the tip of his tongue to let Laurent know that formalities between them aren’t necessary — then thinks better of it. Laurent’s overt politeness is, quite possibly, Damen’s favourite quirk about him.</p><p>Plus, it’s good to keep <em>some</em> distance.</p><p>Together, they get to work in silence. It’s the kind of silence that is thick, lingering in the air.</p><p>It makes Damen immediately regret suggesting this. This is a weird thing to do with his son’s boyfriend isn’t it?</p><p>Then Laurent makes a comment about the size of Damen’s kitchen, and how he likes that he can see the flowers from the garden here, and it feels… okay. This is… fine.</p><p>As Damen gathers the ingredients, instructing Laurent on which cupboards to get bowls and pans from, Laurent says, shyly, “Mr Vallis?”</p><p>“Hmm?” Damen says, not really paying attention.</p><p>“I wanted to ask you something, if that’s okay?”</p><p>Damen stills, his hand closing over the bottle of vanilla essence. He knows this tone, the one Laurent is currently using — the low, coy one — because he’s heard it from fans after book signings, from students after classes. The questions always come in the same soft, sensuous way: <em>I was wondering if… Could you please… Do you think… I wanted to know what </em>you <em>thought of…</em></p><p>The last place Damen expects to hear it is in his own kitchen, from Laurent.</p><p>And then he hears the bathroom door open, and Isander’s sure footsteps.</p><p>“Hey,” his son says, equally sleep rumpled. “What are you guys making?”</p><p>*</p><p>Two days later, Damen is watching a football compilation video on YouTube when the notification pops up on his screen.</p><p><em>laurent_rv </em>liked your tweet.</p><p>It’s obvious that it’s his — <em>Isander’s</em> — Laurent’s account because Damen recognises the blonde hair and the bored gaze in his profile picture.</p><p>The tweet he liked is old, almost two years ago, when Damen had been going to the gym a lot more. Embarrassingly, it’s a photo of Damen shirtless at the gym, flexing. It’s the kind of photo Isander would disapprove of. Right now, it makes Damen cringe too.</p><p>But the fact that Laurent has liked it at one in the morning… that’s weird, right? Much weirder than the pancake thing, right? Or is he reading too much into this? Damen sometimes liked photos of Jokaste’s father on Facebook, but Jonas had never posted a shirtless selfie. Damen doesn’t think he would have liked it if he did. Or maybe he would have — for moral support. He doesn’t know.</p><p>He’s fuelled by nothing but curiosity when he clicks on Laurent’s profile. It’s public, and there are over two thousand tweets. It’s a shock to see how many selfies Laurent posts: Damen doesn’t know why, but he assumed Laurent wasn’t into broadcasting himself so much. He seems so shy all the time, barely looking at Damen, except for that night at Auguste’s — but he’d been drunk then. Damen keeps scrolling. Laurent’s tweets are innocuous: complaints about his classes, jokes and memes Damen doesn’t understand, photos of his outfits — those seem to his most popular tweets by a mile, and one photo of Isander’s side profile, four months ago. There’s no caption.</p><p>Damen keeps scrolling, until the dates get older and older.</p><p>There’s a tweet, dated from three years ago, that reads: <em>sucked cock for the first time today and it honestly might be my most favourite thing ever????</em></p><p>Damen puts down his phone.</p><p>Time for bed, he thinks.</p><p>*</p><p>The door clicks open at four in the morning. Startled, Damen jerks awake, heart pounding, disorientated in the dark. At first, he thinks someone has broken into the house; he gets up on unsteady legs, ready to warn Isander, when he hears a now familiar giggle. </p><p>Isander says, “Shhh. Dad’s asleep.”</p><p>Laurent lets out a small hiccup. “Sorry.” He lets out another laugh as something thuds against the wall.</p><p>Damen sits back down on the bed, sighing. He’s too tired to be irritated; his sleepiness clings to his entire body, unrelenting,</p><p>Hurried footsteps head down the hallway, to Isander’s room. The door shuts with a loud bang, and then there’s more laughing.</p><p>“Fuck’s sake,” Damen mutters, lying down.</p><p>His and Isander’s room are separated by the bathroom, but Damen can still hear everything in the darkness of his room: the rustling of sheets, soft, murmured words and dragging footsteps.</p><p>Just as he’s falling asleep again, he hears it: the groan of the mattress, and then inevitably, Laurent’s long, low moan.</p><p>“Fuck.” Damen grabs his pillow and presses it against his face, trying to block the noise. It doesn’t help.</p><p>Laurent makes a lot of noise and disturbingly, so does Isander.</p><p>He presses the pillow down harder over his ear, hoping to knock out due to suffocation.</p><p>Laurent moans again and Damen grimaces.</p><p>Mercifully, it lasts as long as he’d expect it to for two fumbling twenty year olds.</p><p>It finally falls silent, and then Isander’s muffled voice starts: “Did you —”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Oh. Do you want me to —”</p><p>“No, no. I’m fine, thank you.”</p><p>“Should we —”</p><p>“Let’s just go to sleep.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Damen rolls over onto his back, traumatised. He needs to get sound blocking headphones.</p><p>*</p><p>His office door opens late into the afternoon the next day.</p><p>Laurent’s golden head peeks through. Against his will, Damen remembers last night, Laurent’s sounds with a wince.</p><p>“Hi, Mr Vallis. Sorry I didn’t knock. Isander said that you wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>“Hey,” Damen says, trying to act as normal as possible. “What’s up?”</p><p>He also realises, then, that Laurent has also viewed and liked a photo where Damen is half naked.</p><p>Damen’s neck prickles.</p><p>“Actually, I wanted to ask you for a favour.”</p><p>Damen’s neck prickles even more: Laurent’s tone, especially after last night, is ten times more offsetting right now.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“Um. I have this assignment for my Journalism elective where I have to interview a local, influential figure. And I was wondering if I could —”</p><p>“Oh, sure,” Damen says, blinking, surprised by the straightforward request.</p><p>“Is now okay? It’ll only take a few moments.”</p><p>Damen stares at his screen. He’s only managed fifty more words today — all useless.</p><p>He nods.</p><p>Laurent comes in. The shirt he’s wearing is one of Isander’s, but before that, it had belonged to Damen. Seeing it on Laurent is…</p><p>He can’t think of a word for it.</p><p>Laurent sits down on the only other seat in the office: an uncomfortable wooden stool Isander had liked sitting on years ago, when he’d been a babbling, sweet toddler.</p><p>He places his phone down between them. “It’s cool if I record this, right?”      </p><p>“Yeah,” Damen says.</p><p>Even though Laurent has kept the door open, it suddenly feels suffocating in here.</p><p>Laurent looks at him straight, smile pink and small on his face. He gets right to it. “What inspires you to write, Mr Vallis?”</p><p>Damen instantly thinks of fine, golden hair, blue eyes, and pure, mind-numbing happiness.</p><p>He clears his throat. “Nothing in particular.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>if this chapter seems disorientated and all over the place..... its bc it is lol. im sorry. idk what happened. i tried really hard to fix it. clearly it didnt work.<br/>also that episode of parks and rec where leslies mother hits on ben came up on tv while i was writing this. i feel like thats some sort of sign.<br/>im also on tumblr @goldencuffs!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. hero.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so so grateful to all of you... thanks for being here &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The interview takes as long as Laurent promised it would — just a few, short minutes. All of Laurent’s questions are mild: they’re the same set of basic questions most media outlets and moderators ask him during book tours and press junkies. </p><p>Afterwards, though, Laurent lingers. In the sunlight, everything about him glows: his hair is luminous, and his skin looks fresh, untouched, except for the small, unassuming red mark on the underside of his jaw. Damen shouldn’t notice things like this, but the writer in him can’t help it. He’s observant. It’s why writing comes to him so naturally. At least that’s what Jokaste always used to say.</p><p>“Did you need anything else?” Damen asks, when Laurent doesn’t move to get up — all he’s been doing is fidgeting in his seat, mouth turned.</p><p>Laurent visibly tries to stop moving. He carefully, deliberately places his hands in his lap and sighs. “Actually, if you don’t mind, Mr Vallis, I have another favour to ask you.”</p><p>That queasy, uncomfortable feeling comes back. It floods Damen’s core, like a cool trickle of water.</p><p>“Yeah, what is it?”</p><p>Laurent bites his lip, eyes shifting away to the window where Damen spends most of his mornings watching Laurent, often unintentionally.</p><p>“Well — I know you’re super busy and everything but… oh my god this is so embarrassing.”</p><p>“Should I look away?” Damen says, amused, although he knows he shouldn’t be.</p><p>The uneasiness lifts: this is nothing like the students who bat their eyes at him, full of unearned confidence. Laurent’s shyness in this instance is… endearing.</p><p>“No!” Laurent says. He flushes further, and Damen realises that Laurent is perhaps made up of another colour: a deep, rich red that reminds Damen of a sunset disappearing from view.</p><p>Laurent takes a breath then exhales just as noisily. “Um. Well. I’m kind of writing something. A novel. And I was wondering — you totally don’t have to though — whether you would be willing to look over it. For me. Please. If you want.”</p><p>It’s not the first time someone has asked him for this exact favour, actually. Damen’s had acquaintances, distant relatives, and even the barista on campus ask him for this exact thing.</p><p>The favour itself is not surprising. What’s surprising is the fact that Damen is considering it. He’s not sure why, but it has almost everything to do with Laurent, who is currently red-cheeked and the love of Isander’s life — and Isander is the love of Damen’s life.</p><p>Laurent misinterprets his silence.</p><p>“Never mind, Mr Vallis.” He makes to stand up. “Thank you so much for everything.”</p><p>Damen stops him, his palm raised up. “Hey. Hold on a moment.”</p><p>Laurent sits back down. The colour on his face stains his ears, and then further down, until the mark on his neck blends with his flush.</p><p>“What’s your book about?”</p><p>Laurent shifts. “Um. Well. It’s a romance, which I know you have experience in. Writing, I mean. And also probably in real life too. My god.” Laurent closes his eyes in frustration.</p><p>Damen smiles, though its subdued and goes unnoticed. “I do,” he says, with more forlorn than intended. “Although not much.”</p><p>“Mr Vallis —”</p><p>“Why don’t you bring it over sometime then.” At Laurent’s surprised, hopeful expression, he rushes to add: “But I’m not making any promises about —”</p><p>“Of course!” Laurent says quickly. “Oh my god, thank you so much. Really.”</p><p>Damen smiles again, this one much more genuine. Laurent’s excitement is a palpable energy in this room. It thrums underneath Damen’s fingertips, electric.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Damen says, meaning it.</p><p>*</p><p>As summer continues its persistent pace, Laurent stops coming over as much, until there are several days, and then a full week, where Damen doesn’t see him at all.</p><p>“Summer school,” Isander says, mouth full of crackers and hummus when Damen remembers to ask.</p><p>“Oh,” Damen says, suddenly no longer hungry. “He was going to show me his book.”</p><p>“His what?”</p><p>“His novel. He’s writing one, apparently.”</p><p>“Oh, that. He’s pretty much always working on it.”</p><p>“Is he?” Damen says, intrigued. “Maybe I should hire him to be my ghost-writer.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Isander says, scrolling through his phone.</p><p>Damen sighs, “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>He takes Isander fishing a couple days later, past Kingsmeet, their first time alone in weeks.</p><p>Isander complains about everything the entire time, from the length of the journey, to the heat, to the actual fishing.</p><p>Damen snaps at him halfway. It proves to be too effective: Isander finally quietens and doesn’t speak to Damen for the rest of the trip.</p><p>It seems to only get worse: they don’t manage to catch any fish and Isander gets a sunburn on the back of his neck.</p><p>On the way back, Damen sighs to himself, disquieted. He can count the number of meaningful interactions he and Isander have had this summer on one hand.</p><p>Maybe he should stop trying so hard. His book would be thankful for it, at least.</p><p>*</p><p>A few days later, in the middle of the night, Damen’s phone chimes with a text from an unknown number.</p><p>
  <em>hey mr vallis its laurent i hope this isnt weird but i got your number from isander. can we talk about when we can meet for my book??</em>
</p><p>Damen doesn’t hesitate to reply.</p><p>
  <em>Hey Laurent. When are you free? My schedule is much more lax than yours.</em>
</p><p>Laurent says: <em>you text exactly like you talk lol. </em>And then: <em>im free tomorrow all day if that</em><em>’s okay??</em></p><p>Damen doesn’t even need to think about it. He writes back: <em>Perfect.</em></p><p>*</p><p>Laurent knocks on his door two minutes before ten am. His hair is mussed, the back of it sticking up in a way that Damen now know means that Isander was running his hand through it, probably while they kissed.</p><p>Damen also knows that Laurent has been here since eight. Isander had opened the door because he’d never gone to sleep last night. Their conversation in the kitchen had been a gentle lull in the background as Damen had typed.</p><p>Laurent is wearing a cotton, billowy button down, the sleeves loose and rolled up past his elbows. Predictably, they’re tucked into an indecently tiny pair of shorts, the kind that was prevalent through the eighties. He looks like the epitome of a summer’s day.</p><p>Laurent has a laptop tucked underneath his armpits. “Morning, sir,” he says, polite and sweet as always. “How are you?”</p><p>“Good,” Damen says, clicking out of his document. “And you?”</p><p>The mark on Laurent’s neck is darker today. “Good, thank you.”</p><p>He hovers at the doorway, awkward, unsure, until Damen gestures to the seat near his desk.</p><p>Laurent is already babbling: “I don’t want you to get your hopes up or anything. It really isn’t that great. I shouldn’t even be showing you this.”</p><p>Damen smiles, charmed. Laurent is effortlessly likeable. “Let me see.”</p><p>Laurent’s laptop is already open on a word document — a quick glance at the word count show there is an impressive thirty thousand words.</p><p>“Is this completed?”</p><p>“Almost. I’m stuck on the climax.” Laurent says, biting his thumbnail. “It’s… the main thing I need help with. The outlining stuff.”</p><p>There’s a small, succinct summary at the top of the page: <em>The owner of an indie bookshop is thrust into a strange adventure when the character of his favourite book comes to life. </em></p><p>Cute<em>, </em>thinks Damen. It brings a smile to his face.</p><p>“What?” Laurent says anxiously. “Do you hate it? Don’t read anymore.”</p><p>Damen laughs. “You’re going to have a hard time convincing me not to, based on this excellent summary.”</p><p>Laurent goes pink. His eyes shift over to Damen’s face, awed and shocked.</p><p>“Really?” The quiver in his voice is pressed with happiness.</p><p>Damen grins. He can feel it overtake his entire face.</p><p>“Yeah, really.”</p><p>Laurent’s arm brushes against his as he leans in closer to look at his document. “I know it’s a lot and you don’t have to read all of it — but just. Thank you. For even doing this. For even looking at it.”</p><p>Damen isn’t used to this amount of unabashed sincerity.</p><p>He grips Laurent’s shoulder, squeezing once firmly. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m happy to help.”</p><p>Laurent’s wide, blown eyed stare snaps to him.</p><p>Damen retracts his hand. “Sorry.”</p><p>Laurent flushes. “No, it’s fine. <em>I’m </em>sorry.”</p><p>Damen clears his throat and turns back to the document. “I’m assuming the bookstore owner falls in love with the character?”</p><p>“Almost,” Laurent smiles, still pink. “The other way around. The bookstore owner is already engaged to someone else.”</p><p>“Well. It sounds interesting,” Damen says. “Seriously. But again, I can’t promise you when I’ll get to this.”</p><p>“Of course!” Laurent leans even closer, over the desk, to touch Damen’s arm.</p><p>The first thing Damen registers is how cool Laurent’s fingertips are. They press into Damen’s skin, learning five small indents.</p><p>They both look down and stare as Laurent presses down once more.</p><p>Slowly, Laurent retracts his hand. Damen takes another glance at his arm and then at Laurent, who is still too close.</p><p>Damen pulls back, discomfited.</p><p>There’s a slight, tense pause.</p><p>Laurent clears his throat again and then grabs his laptop. “I’m just going to send this over to you.” He stands up. “Thanks again, Mr Vallis. I should probably get going. I have a lunch date. Well, not a date. I’m only dating Isander — so. Oh my god. I’m just going to go.”</p><p>Damen smiles, the tension from earlier melting away. “See you, Laurent.”</p><p>Laurent nods, jerky and uncoordinated. “See you, sir.”</p><p>*</p><p>The sun begins to set, slowly but surely washing Damen’s office in bright colours.</p><p>Isander walks in, hands shoved into his pockets, expression tight and contrite. “Hey,” he says, and then stops, waiting until Damen looks up.</p><p>Damen sees him through the corner of his eye, but he keeps typing. He’s <em>this </em>close to nailing his deuteragonist.</p><p>When he finishes, he prompts Isander with a, “Yeah?”</p><p>Isander rocks on his feet, the same way he used to when he got nervous as a child. “I’m heading down to <em>The Shack. </em>Do you wanna come too? I know you like their burgers.”</p><p>Damen <em>loves </em>their burgers. He also loves <em>The Shack</em>. And he loves the fact that, for once, it’s Isander who’s asking him to hang out.</p><p>But Damen is busy: something about seeing Laurent’s enthusiasm today has fuelled his own desire to go over his novel. So far, surprisingly, it’s gone well. Damen has hit a thousand words today. It’s not even nine.</p><p>“I can’t,” Damen says, still not looking up. “I have to finish this character, and then their introduction.”</p><p>“Oh,” Isander says. “Sure.” Except he doesn’t move.</p><p>Damen waits a beat, and then Isander blurts out: “Are you still mad at me for the fishing trip?”</p><p>“No,” Damen replies instantly, finally peering over at Isander from his monitor. It’s true: he’s not angry. Just a little disappointed. He doesn’t know why he and Isander have become like this: strangers in their own home, tiptoeing around each other. He doesn’t like the fact that Isander needs a boyfriend just to spend time at home.</p><p>They need space. Damen hadn’t realised it until the fishing trip.  </p><p>Isander stares at him a moment, searching his face. Then he nods, leaving without another word.</p><p>An hour later, Damen finishes his scene. It’s rough, unstructured, but miraculously, he’s managed another seven hundred words.</p><p>He decides to quit while he’s ahead and pulls out Laurent’s story.</p><p>Damen only means to read the first chapter. Once he starts, though, it’s hard to stop. It’s not perfect: it’s obvious Laurent is an amateur, but he’s intelligent. His sentences are sharp, poignant, and his structure is sound. His story is astoundingly sweet and funny; Damen catches himself laughing aloud several times.</p><p>By midnight, he’s finished the whole thing. Laurent had ended it abruptly, right at the climax, which is what he had said he had an issue with.</p><p>Damen can already tell why: Laurent seems to have written himself into a corner with no way out. Damen is already thinking of ways to fix it, thinking of alternative plotlines.</p><p>He wonders if he should call Laurent, if it’s too late to do so.</p><p>It <em>is </em>too late. But there’s a spark in Damen’s gut that lets him know that Laurent wouldn’t mind.</p><p>In fact, Damen can imagine the candor of his voice right now in his head:</p><p><em>Thank you </em>so <em>much, Mr Vallis. I’m </em>so<em> grateful…</em></p><p>Damen swallows. It’s late. He’s clearly delirious. He needs to go to bed.</p><p>*</p><p>Damen doesn’t see Laurent until another two weeks have passed. According to Isander, his summer semester is packed, and Laurent is struggling with his workload.</p><p>Isander stays home most of the time now, only he keeps to himself, locked in his bedroom. It reminds Damen of Isander’s turbulent teenage years. God knows how he and Kashel dealt with it.</p><p>When he sees Laurent out on the alfresco as he heads to his office, it’s a surprise, albeit a good one. He hadn’t realised how… lively Laurent’s golden presence was in his house, like a streak of bright paint on a white wall.</p><p>He notices something is wrong almost right away: Laurent usually sits with his head tipped back, gaze serene as he watches the sky, as though he’s never seen it before.</p><p>Today, his forehead is pressed to his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, a classic scene of distress.</p><p>Damen lets his footsteps drag enough so Laurent hears him and knocks against the door frame, one sharp, rapt noise.</p><p>Laurent’s shoulders tighten and then he looks up. He’s not crying, but his face is splotchy, spots of red and pink overtaking it as though he just was. Damen also notices the wet sheen right under his eyes, the tops of his cheekbones.</p><p>He’s immediately concerned. “Hey,” he says, keeping his voice steady, soft. “Everything okay?”</p><p>Laurent makes a noise that doesn’t leave his throat. “Yes,” he says, his usual meekness missing. His voice is scratchy, hoarse, his words tumbling out in spikes, “It’s nothing, sir.”</p><p>Damen hesitates. It’s clear it’s not <em>nothing </em>— but he also doesn’t know what to say. He wishes Isander were here to take care of his boyfriend, instead of snoring away in his bedroom. Then again, maybe <em>Isander </em>is the problem and that is why Laurent doesn’t want to speak to him.</p><p>All Damen says now is: “You sure?”</p><p>Laurent nods, eyes drifting away to the bed of lilies Damen had planted in the spring.</p><p>“Yeah, thanks, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>It would be convincing if not for the way his voice wobbles over Damen’s name.</p><p>Damen isn’t sure whether he should push again. Ultimately, he decides against it: it’s clear Laurent wants to be alone, and in all truthfulness, he doesn’t think he’d be much help anyway.</p><p>He says, “Okay.”</p><p>Laurent doesn’t watch him leave. Instead, he curls up on himself once again. It almost stops Damen in his path all over again; it’s such a heartbreaking sight, it feels inhumanely cruel to leave Laurent.</p><p>A few moments later, seated in his office, the words come to Damen in a rush. He decides not to turn on his desktop to minimise distractions and instead writes down his scene into his mangy notebook, his pen working slower than his brain, so all of his handwriting is done in broad, running strokes that are barely legible.</p><p>By the end of it, Damen’s hand is cramping, and he’s filled in almost nine pages.</p><p>As he massages his knuckles, his finger now sporting a large indent from his pen, his eyes, almost against his will, travel to the window, where he knows he will be able to see Laurent.</p><p>He’s right: Laurent is still seated on the sofa, but this time he’s crying more openly. Damen watches him wipe his face, his palm dragging across his face and reddening it.</p><p>Sensitive skin, Damen thinks, and again, it’s like the thought comes to him unbidden.</p><p>He doesn’t know when he makes the conscious decision to get up, but before he realises it, he’s standing in front of the alfresco sliding doors again. “Hey,” he says.</p><p>Laurent freezes. He carefully lifts his tear streaked face and watches Damen with cautious eyes.</p><p>“You hungry?” Damen says, and makes sure to keep everything about himself, his eyes, smile and voice, friendly, open. “I’m heading down to <em>Sunroom </em>for breakfast. Why don’t we go together? Isander’s not going to be up for a while.”</p><p>“I —” Laurent’s hands scrunch up on his lap, twisting. “<em>Sunroom</em>?”</p><p>“Yeah, the café down the road.” He pauses. “Isander’s never taken you?”</p><p>Laurent’s face schools itself into an expression of pure neutrality. “No, sir.”</p><p>Damen frowns, surprised. “Come on. You can’t visit Ios and not go to <em>Sunroom. </em>I’ll take you.”</p><p>Laurent bites his lip, unmoving.</p><p>It comes to Damen then: his request is absurd, making Laurent uncomfortable.</p><p>He says, “It’s okay if you don’t want to, Laurent. That’s a valid option too.”</p><p>“Mr Vallis,” Laurent says, hands still twisting. “I’d really like to go. Thank you for inviting me.” He sniffs a little, nose red. “Can I just — is it okay if I go to the bathroom first?”</p><p>“Of course, Laurent,” he says. “You don’t need to ask me for permission.</p><p>Laurent nods. “I know. But I just — wanted to.”</p><p>Damen frowns again. He moves out of the way to let Laurent through, but apparently not fast enough: Laurent still manages to press up against him as he turns to the bathroom. Damen briefly catches a strong whiff of lemon.</p><p>Laurent doesn’t take long; Damen manages to grab his keys, wallet and spray cologne on himself by the time Laurent comes out.</p><p>Laurent looks much better, much more put together. He’s clearly washed his face, which is no longer flushed, and he’s tucked his shirt into his old, threadbare jeans. He looks to Damen for direction, and Damen realises he’s been staring for a beat too long.</p><p>He clears his throat. “Let’s go then.”</p><p>Damen is expecting the awkwardness this time, so maybe that explains why Damen is so relaxed.</p><p>Laurent settles into the passenger seat, compact and silent.</p><p>The drive is short — just over five minutes. As Damen parks the car, he says, “Isander really hasn’t taken you here?”</p><p>Laurent answers the same as before. “No, sir.”</p><p>Damen shakes his head. Isander and he — as do most Akielons — love this particular café franchise. It’s celebrated all over Akielos, but especially here in Ios, where <em>Sunroom </em>was birthed. More importantly, it’s so close to home. There’s literally no reason for Isander to not make an effort to bring Laurent here.</p><p>It’s a little past eleven on a Wednesday morning, so <em>Sunroom </em>is as busy as it usually gets.</p><p><em>Sunroom </em>is a small, idyllic restaurant, cluttered with accented vintage pieces: old, rustic globes, leather trunks as coffee tables and velvety Victorian themed lounges. They’re the most comfortable chairs Damen has ever sat in; he’s always tempted to buy one after he’s been in here.</p><p>Laurent looks at everything with unconcealed curiosity, gaze sweeping over every little detail in the eclectic space.</p><p>It makes Damen smile. He’s been here so many times now that he’s used to the noisiness and vibrancy of everything.</p><p>Damen leads them down to his usual seat, where low, hanging ferns hover above their heads.</p><p>Laurent sits down, eyeing the painted ceiling and the flowery wallpaper.</p><p>“You like it?”</p><p>Laurent jumps a little, then meets his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “It’s really nice.”</p><p>“The food is better,” Damen assures. “Do you want anything in particular? They pretty much have everything.”</p><p>Laurent nods as he flips through the menus on the table, which have been printed on old encyclopedia pages from the eighteenth century.</p><p>Laurent reads the whole thing twice and says, “A small cappuccino.”</p><p>Damen raises an eyebrow. “Come on. You don’t want food?”</p><p>“No, sir.”</p><p>“Laurent.”</p><p>Laurent turns a brilliant, vibrant pink that is as eye catching as… well, everything else about him.</p><p>“Scrambled eggs with sourdough toast,” Laurent says after another minute, which Damen knows for a fact is the cheapest item on the menu.</p><p>“Laurent,” he says again and is rewarded with more colour.</p><p>Laurent squirms a little and says, “The prawn fettuccine looks good, sir.”</p><p>Damen grins at him. “It’s great.”</p><p>Ten minutes later with the food now in front of them — eggs benedict for Damen, and two mochas for each of them — Damen asks, “Are you feeling better now?”</p><p>Laurent delicately swallows a forkful of pasta. “Yes, thank you so much, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>Damen peers at him for a moment. “Did Isander say something to you?”</p><p>Laurent pauses, shocked. Then he rapidly shakes his head. “No, no. It’s — it was a bunch of small things.” He bites his lip. “I had a fight this morning with my — with Auguste and then I got a shit — uh, I mean bad — mark on my recent assessment. So. I. Like I said, small things.” He flushes. “It’s stupid.”</p><p>“It’s not stupid if it made you upset.”</p><p>Laurent colours further. He plays around with his pasta, eyes downcast.</p><p>“Hey,” says Damen, and then waits until Laurent meets his eyes again. “I read your book last night. Frankly, I couldn’t <em>stop</em> reading it.”</p><p>Laurent’s mouth drops open and his fork leaves his hand with a clatter. He gapes at Damen. “Wait, seriously?”</p><p>“Seriously,” Damen says with a small laugh.</p><p>Laurent continues to stare at him in awe. It’s highly flattering.</p><p>“I don’t even know what to say,” Laurent says in a quiet, quivering voice.</p><p>Damen says, “I’d love to help you on the rest of your story if you’d be okay with me doing so.”</p><p>Laurent’s face crumples. Then he buries it in his hands. “Please don’t say anything more. I’ll start crying again.”</p><p>The word comes to his mind, firmly lodging itself in there. <em>Cute. </em></p><p>Only, he’s not thinking of Laurent’s story, but of Laurent himself.</p><p>He’s glad Isander has someone like Laurent in his life now. And of course, vice versa.</p><p>Laurent still looks dazed and disorientated as they continue their meals. If Damen didn’t know better, he’d think Laurent was drunk. Maybe he is, except not on alcohol but on… Damen’s praise.</p><p>Damen swallows, banishing the thought out of his mind immediately.</p><p>Naturally, conversation is stilted. There’s only so much Damen and Laurent can talk about it, realistically, especially without Isander acting as a buffer, like he had the last time, during that first dinner.</p><p>Mercifully, it ends soon: Laurent must catch on to the sudden shift in the air because he shovels his food into mouth in quick bursts.</p><p>Damen gets up to pay. He grins, wide and joyful when he sees Stavos, the owner, at the counter. Damen has known him for the last fifteen years and he always gives Damen a discount, which he makes up in tips.</p><p>They make small talk for a while, and then Stavos discreetly nods in the direction of Laurent, who is currently spinning one of the globes by the entrance.</p><p>“It’s nice to finally see you getting back in the game,” Stavos says, smiling kindly. “You two seem good for each other.”</p><p>“What?” Damen says, frowning.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re seeing other people,” Stavos says, eyes crinkling.</p><p>“Oh,” Damen says, finally catching on. He almost laughs at the absurdity. “No —”</p><p>“Jokaste was here with someone the other day as well.”</p><p>Damen stills. There’s a drowning roar in his head.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Stavos catches sight of his expression and stops. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry, Damen. I thought you knew.”</p><p>“I —” Damen forcibly stops himself from responding.</p><p>He still follows Jokaste on everything, and she hasn’t posted any photos of new men. That’s… a good sign, isn’t it? This was the same woman who had posted a selfie of herself and Damen right after their first date. So the fact that she hasn’t done that now is… good.</p><p>He shakes his head. “Thanks, man.” He smiles at Stavos, trying to dispel the uncomfortableness. “See you.”</p><p>“Are you alright Mr Vallis?” Laurent asks when they meet at the front.</p><p>“Yes,” Damen says, head still spinning.</p><p>Is it serious? he wonders.</p><p>He hasn’t thought of being with anyone else for seven months and Jokaste is already…</p><p>He thinks: <em>She stopped being in love with you ages ago, you idiot.</em></p><p>The car ride is tense. From his peripheral, he can see Laurent throwing him concerned looks.</p><p>The house is still when they come back. Laurent’s face falls as he surveys the empty house.</p><p>Damen feels a sudden burst of irrational anger, except he’s not sure who he’s mad at: Isander, for being so inconsiderate towards Laurent and always leaving him alone; at Laurent for not leaving his house and just wasting his time here, or at Jokaste who is taking other men to their favourite café.</p><p>Jesus.</p><p>The bathroom door opens. Laurent’s face fills with relief. He makes to turn down the hallway, but then turns back towards Damen in a split second.</p><p>“Thank you for everything today, Mr Vallis,” he says, sweetly. “You didn’t have to do all that for me.”</p><p>Damen smiles, though he’s unsure how sincere it looks. “You’re welcome.”</p><p>Laurent hovers for a moment, then makes a decision. Damen sees the way his face changes shape, contorting with determination.</p><p>He gets up on his toes and places two kisses to Damen’s face, on both cheeks, near the corner of his mouth.</p><p>It happens too quickly for Damen to process. All he registers is Laurent’s warmth, his scent, lemony and sugary, invading his space.</p><p>He isn’t sure what face he makes, but it makes Laurent flush red when he pulls back.</p><p>“Bye, sir,” Laurent says, and then turns towards Isander’s room once more.</p><p>Damen’s heart is racing. He rubs his hand over his forehead, agitated.</p><p>Calm down. It’s not strange, he tells himself. He’s seen Laurent kissing men older and younger than him on their cheeks.</p><p>At Auguste’s party, he had anticipated it. It’s a common greeting in Vere.</p><p>It’s not weird.</p><p>In the silence of the kitchen, his head hurts with all the ringing.</p><p>He needs to go on a run.</p><p>*</p><p>Running is cathartic. Damen does it until his chest feels like it will collapse, until his calves burn with effort. His skin runs hot because of the sun, which is as determined as usual.</p><p>He doesn’t think of Jokaste once.</p><p>But oddly, he begins to crave sweet lemonade.</p><p>When he comes back home, there are voices coming from the living room. <em>Loud </em>voices. Damen can hear the chatter through his headphones.</p><p>He takes them off, curious.</p><p>Laurent’s voice rings through, abrasive and sharp in ways Damen didn’t think he was capable of.</p><p>“God, <em>grow up.</em>”</p><p>Isander snaps. “Don’t fucking tell me to grow up when —”</p><p>Damen puts the volume up higher. He toes off his shoes, takes of his shirt, eager to get into the shower. He tries to make as much noise as possible, in an effort to let Isander know he’s home.</p><p>The song stops. In the split second it takes for another to start, Damen hears Laurent say in angry Veretian, “Maybe if you could fuck me properly, I wouldn’t be so stressed.”</p><p>Isander’s response is exasperated, furious. “I told you to <em>stop doing that.</em> You <em>know</em> I don’t understand Veretian.”</p><p>Damen winces. His song starts again.</p><p>He sighs, grateful. There’s no need for him to listen to this.</p><p>*</p><p>Later that night, Damen scours through Jokaste’s Instagram. There are no pictures of any men — even the ones with Damen have been archived or deleted.</p><p>But there is a photo of a honey and fig breakfast bowl from the <em>Sunroom</em>, posted last week.</p><p>Fuck.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. climax.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>im so sorry for the long wait!! this chapter is 10k+ tho so please enjoy 😋 <br/>also thank you SO MUCH for your lovely comments im so sorry i haven’t replied yet but i definitely will!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Damen registers when he wakes up is the burning behind his eyelids, the throbbing of his temple, and the unbearable dryness of his mouth.</p><p>Fuck. It’s been years since he’s been <em>this </em>hung over. Even the cool sheets beneath him feel uncomfortable: they scratch over Damen’s bare torso, leaving him itchy, irritated.</p><p>He had stayed up late last night, drinking fine old whiskey and eating cheap dollar store mac n cheese, staring at the television as it had played terrible infomercials.</p><p>The only thing he could think of was that breakfast bowl Jokaste had posted. She had never ordered that when they had gone out together. Why had she even ordered it? Had her date convinced her to? Damen didn’t like the thought of someone else telling Jokaste to try different foods. She always got the cuban sandwich at the <em>Sunroom</em>. <em>Always. </em>It was their speciality. She loved it. So why the fuck had she ordered the breakfast bowl?</p><p>He probably would have stayed there all night, thinking about that fucking breakfast bowl, but then he had heard Isander’s door click as it had been locked. Ten minutes after that, the mattress had started creaking, and the sounds of Laurent and Isander enthusiastically making up after their spat from yesterday afternoon had been unbearably loud through the walls. Damen had gone to bed, feeling impossibly alone.</p><p>It takes gruelling effort to get up. The world tilts as he does so, and the wave of nausea is prominent and disorientating. He manages to amble over to the bathroom, washing his face vigorously with ice cold water.</p><p>Fuck, he thinks again. He’s never drinking again.</p><p>Well. He’s not going to drink so much.</p><p>Damen decides to go back to bed, even though his bedroom is too bright for his pounding head.</p><p>He calls Kashel fifteen minutes later, after he’s worked up the nerve to.</p><p>“Hey,” Kashel says. “How’s it going?”</p><p>Damen doesn’t faff about. “Is Jokaste seeing someone else?”</p><p>A pause — just long enough to confirm Damen’s question.</p><p>“It’s not serious or anything,” Kashel says. “She just started seeing him.”</p><p>“Jesus,” Damen says. The thumping inside his head is getting worse.</p><p>“She really hasn’t told me much about him, Damen, so if this is an interrogation, don’t bother, because I know just as much as you.” Kashel’s voice is like a frigid slice of air.</p><p>He forgets, sometimes, how bitchy she can be, and why they had never bothered pursuing a relationship.</p><p>Damen screws his eyes shut. He needs a smoke.</p><p>“Okay,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, his gut twisting.</p><p>Kashel clicks her tongue “Come on, Damen…” Her words are unsympathetic. “You must have realised this would eventually be a possibility.”</p><p>Damen swallows, pinching his sweatpants at the point where it bunches against his kneecaps. He doesn’t know if he ever <em>did </em>realise that. All he’s wanted for the last few months is to get back with Jokaste… and he’d, naively, thought that she wanted the same thing too.</p><p>After a moment, Kashel says, “Come meet up with me for lunch today.”</p><p>Damen immediately revolts against the idea — and not for his usual reasons. His head is dedicated in its mission to kill him.</p><p>“I don’t think I can, Kashel,” Damen begins.</p><p>Kashel interrupts him. “Look, I’ll come to you. We’ll go to <em>Sunroom</em>, okay? I know you love that place.”</p><p>Damen sighs. <em>Sunroom </em>is the last place he wants to go to right now. All he’s going to think about there is Jokaste and her date. Or worse — he’ll be thinking of Stavos, and how he had thought Laurent was his new…</p><p>Damen’s stomach grumbles loudly — the ultimate sign of betrayal.</p><p>Then, he hears the thudding of footsteps, and Laurent’s sweet giggle as the door of Isander’s bedroom slams shut. It’s honestly as though their fight was a figment of Damen’s imagination.</p><p>Damen sighs again, running a hand over the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, alright. I’ll meet you there in twenty.”</p><p>“Perfect,” Kashel says, and then: “Wear something nice.”</p><p>She hangs up the phone abruptly, so Damen is left alone with the sound of Laurent’s laboured breathing and the steady thump of the mattress.</p><p>*</p><p>Damen enters <em>Sunroom </em>forty minutes later.</p><p>Kashel is easy to spot: she’s seated right near the entrance, despite the few patrons, and she’s wearing a bright orange dress that makes her hair almost seem red.</p><p>There’s a broad, muscular man beside her, with a shock of wonderful, thick sandy hair and deep green eyes.</p><p>They both smile when they see Damen, although Kashel’s is more strained.</p><p>Damen thinks it might be because he’s wearing a ten year old fading graphic t shirt with a prominent ketchup stain.</p><p>“Hey,” Kashel says, rising up to kiss his cheek. “This is Marcus. Marcus, Damen.”</p><p>“Hey,” Damen says, shaking Marcus’ hand as he stays seated. “Sorry, I’m late. I was throwing up in the shower.” He manages a small, awkward smile when he’s met with bemused stares. “Sorry. That was mostly a joke.”</p><p>Kashel closes her eyes. Marcus hesitantly looks between them, then gives Damen a smile that is charming and laid back.</p><p>“It’s really nice to meet you. Kashel’s told me a lot about you.”</p><p>Damen’s smile falters, and he fixes Kashel with a steady gaze. He can already guess exactly what she’s said about him, the kind of dialogue she’s shared with Marcus.</p><p>Marcus catches on. “Oh, I meant… I’m a huge fan, that’s all.”</p><p>He says it brazenly, eyes locked on Damen’s, a stark, disorientating contrast to the way Laurent had said it all those weeks ago: sweet, fumbling, and endearingly shy.</p><p>Damen presses his lips together, unsure of how to respond.</p><p>Kashel kicks him under the table when he pauses too long.</p><p>“Thanks,” says Damen eventually, tight-lipped.</p><p>Before the silence can filter in through the cracks of their already weaning conversation, Kashel leads it. She doesn’t even give them a chance to look at the menus and order — she just starts saying: “Marcus works in environmental law with me. He only just started, but he’s already managed to land some of our biggest clients.”</p><p>“Hmm, impressive,” Damen says, fingers playing with the peeling plastic on the menu cover, bored.</p><p>Marcus looks pleased, the curl of his mouth just smug enough to still look decent. “Thanks.”</p><p>Three minutes later, it becomes apparent that Marcus is here as part of a terrible <em>set-up</em>.</p><p>Kashel barrels on and on: “Marcus has always wanted children, but none of his partners have really been on the same page, have they?” And: “You know Damen is an amazing father. I owe him <em>so </em>much when it comes to Isander.” And: “Marcus really hasn’t had a chance to properly tour Ios. Damen, why don’t you show him around sometime?” And even: “Marcus was just telling me that his last date was <em>horrific</em>. It’s a shame you haven’t met anyone decent yet.”</p><p>Finally, Damen says, “Kashel. Can I speak to you for a minute?”</p><p>Even Marcus has gone red, his eyes firmly settled on the same globe Laurent had played with before.</p><p>They move over to the back tables, where Marcus is conveniently covered with a potted plant.</p><p>Kashel crosses her arms and says, “What?”</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“Okay. Fine. I shouldn’t have sprung this on you — but Marcus is really great and —”</p><p>“Kashel. Please.”</p><p>She stares up at him, frowning. “How long are you going to <em>be </em>like this, Damen?”</p><p>Damen bristles. “As long as I want to,” he says in a hard voice.</p><p>She looks at him for a moment before her mouth tightens. “Fine. Whatever.”</p><p>When they get back to the table, Damen orders the honey and fig breakfast bowl.</p><p>It’s placed in front of him barely five minutes later. He digs in with trepidation.</p><p>It’s amazing.</p><p>*</p><p>Now that Laurent has his number, he’s very liberal about texting Damen all through the night. Damen sometimes wakes up to see a flurry of texts from Laurent, all sent between one to five in the morning. He wonders when Laurent sleeps — or if he ever does at all — because Laurent also manages to wake up earlier than him most mornings.</p><p>Damen reads all his texts eagerly. Laurent sends him links to articles, memes, gifs, pictures of Damen’s novels, where he has marked entire paragraphs with either highlight or his own notes — or sometimes both. Those texts are Damen’s favourite by far. He even saves one of the photos Laurent sends — a snippet of <em>Lightbulb </em>where the protagonist realises she’s in love — that Laurent has marked with a simple, scrawled heart in the margins of the novel. It’s touching.</p><p>There are others that Damen likes just as much:</p><p>
  <em>i </em>
  <em>liked this interview you did mr vallis</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i think you</em>
  <em>’d like this</em>
</p><p>
  <em>do you think this is a good writing routine???</em>
</p><p>
  <em>this reminds me of you lol</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i went to sunroom again and tried the grilled cheese it was crazy good. Like illegally good</em>
</p><p>
  <em>their pasta and mediterrian breakfast was amazing too</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thanks for recommending it to me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>how are you mr vallis?</em>
</p><p>Damen doesn’t respond to all of them because he’s worried once he starts, Laurent will do nothing <em>but </em>text him all day. Or — and he only admits this to himself, just once, in the dead of the night — that if he texts back, <em>he </em>won’t be able to keep himself from being glued to his phone.</p><p>All he does is text Laurent one particularly humid day: <em>Meet me at my office on Tuesday morning.</em></p><p>Then, belatedly, adds: <em>For your book. Obviously.</em></p><p>Laurent writes back, almost instantly: <em>lol obviously </em></p><p>Damen’s thumb hovers over his keyboard, thinking of what to say.</p><p>In the end, he decides it’s for the best if he leaves Laurent on read.</p><p>*</p><p>Damen opens the fridge door and immediately sighs. As he suspected, it’s barren, just like the pantry, the kitchen cupboards, and even the small fridge in the garage, which Damen hasn’t used for a good year or so anyway — but he had been hopeful.</p><p>It’s midday. Damen has been up since five in the morning, working on his outline, and the beginning of his climax — which he thinks he’s almost perfected. But he also hasn’t eaten since then, and he knows neither has Isander and Laurent, since they’ve been locked in Isander’s bedroom all day.</p><p>Damen debates whether he shoulder order in, then ultimately decides he won’t: they’ve had takeaway everyday this week, and he can’t stand the look Isander gives him — a combination of frustration and moroseness — every time the doorbell rings.</p><p>Damen also knows that eating nothing but take out for the last few weeks is exactly the kind of thing that makes him seem as though he’s not okay — which he is. Mostly. Definitely. Totally. Jokaste’s breakfast bowl has just thrown him off balance, that’s all. A small bump on the road.</p><p>Bottom line — he needs to go grocery shopping. It’s been about three weeks since he’s gone. Jesus. He’s suddenly grateful Nikandros isn’t here.</p><p>He grabs his keys and wallet; as he passes Isander’s room, he realises the door is open. He was sure it was locked this morning — and now… it isn’t.</p><p>Isander is sprawled across messy, undone bed sheets, playing… something with a controller, his expression furrowed in concentration. Laurent, meanwhile, is on his laptop, face bored, slack, as the sounds of canned laughter play from his screen. He’s sitting on the chair by Isander’s desk, legs stretched straight out in front of him, the bare soles of his feet pressed to the edge of the mattress.</p><p>Damen immediately averts his eyes — he doesn’t want to linger over Laurent.</p><p>Instead, he knocks on the doorway. Laurent instantly looks up. Isander, naturally, doesn’t.</p><p>Laurent is still looking at him. Damen ignores him. He raps the door again.</p><p>Then, Laurent kicks Isander’s thigh once, hard. Damen’s eyes, helplessly, track the elegant movement of it.</p><p>Isander looks up at Laurent, frowning.</p><p>“Your dad’s here,” he says, inexplicably going red and turning back to his laptop, though his eyes don’t blink or move.</p><p>“What’s up?” says Isander, eyes flickering between his screen and Damen. “You alright?”</p><p>Damen’s mouth thins, incomprehensibly annoyed with his flippant tone. He says, “I’m heading to the grocery store. Do you need anything?”</p><p>“Oh,” Isander straightens. “Just some shredded cheese, please. And bread. I’ve been craving a good grilled cheese.”</p><p>“<em>Sunroom </em>does a really good grilled cheese,” says Laurent, biting his thumbnail as he addresses Isander.</p><p>Damen swallows.</p><p>“Yeah? You’ve been to <em>Sunroom</em>?” Isander says. “No way! I’ve been meaning to take you for a while now.”</p><p>“Have you,” says Laurent, coldly, though he doesn’t frame it as a question. “It’s a shame you’re so busy then.” His tone and expression are both acerbic.</p><p>The only sound in the room is the gunfire from Isander’s screen as he frowns at Laurent, confused.</p><p>Damen clears his throat, hoping to undermine the sudden tension in the air.</p><p>“Cheese and bread. Got it.” He turns to Laurent. “Do you need anything, Laurent?”</p><p>Laurent’s steady gaze flicks to him, searching. He bites his bottom lip, then releases it. “No, sir, thank you.”</p><p>Damen raises an eyebrow.</p><p>Laurent flushes, and squirms in his seat, like it’s suddenly alight in flames. Then, quietly, he says, “Mr Vallis, could I please have some gum? I finished my pack this morning. I —” He squirms again. “I’ll pay you back, sir.”</p><p>“It’s alright, Laurent,” Damen says, bemused. “I think my wallet can stretch enough for a pack of gum.”</p><p>Laurent goes red, even as his eyes remain on him. He gives Damen a tiny nod. “Thank you, sir.”</p><p>“You got it,” Damen says. “See you guys.” But he keeps looking at Laurent.</p><p>Laurent bites his lip again. It colours a bright, strawberry red under his teeth. “Bye sir,”Laurent says, the same shy way he had the other day.</p><p>Isander has already started his game again.</p><p>Damen gives Laurent another nod and then leaves. As he opens the front door, he hears Isander says, “Why do you still call him <em>sir</em>? Are you scared of him?”</p><p>Damen waits, hand on the doorknob, eager to hear Laurent’s response.</p><p>Laurent says, “No,” and then there’s the sound of a hard, wet kiss.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s surprisingly busy at the grocery store; the self checkout line is crowded, all the scanners are taken, so he heads to the express line.</p><p>The girl at the register is polite, if a little indifferent towards him. She’s clearly a few hours into her shift. She scans the six packs of gum he had picked up — peppermint, strawberry, spearmint, watermelon, apple and grape — and he wonders what the fuck he was thinking.</p><p>“Damen?”</p><p>Instictively, he freezes. His heart lurches, the thought of even meeting a fan setting him on edge. He lifts his eyes, and realises he should have pretended not to hear anything, because it’s worse than a fan: it’s Marcus, standing in line behind him, just as tall and broad as the other day.</p><p>He’s dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit and a forest green tie that matches his eyes almost perfectly. Everything about him is infuriatingly handsome as he watches Damen with apparent interest.</p><p>Damen gathers his groceries, shoving them into his canvas bag. He offers a brief, tight smile. “Hey.”</p><p>“Hey,” Marcus says, smile wonderful, even under the flickering fluorescent lights. “It’s nice to see you again.”</p><p>“Yeah, you too,” Damen says with little enthusiasm.</p><p>The cashier scans Marcus’ items: a bunch of bananas, a packet of nuts and a box of tissues. “How are you?”</p><p>“Great,” Damen says, hovering by the register, wanting to make his escape. Is it still weird that he’s standing here? Would it be rude if he just left?</p><p>Marcus doesn’t have a canvas bag, and doesn’t spend the extra ten cents on a paper one. He asks for a plastic bag, carrying it one handed. His other hand is holding a leather brief case. He looks like the overzealous, overworked employee Damen had been four years ago, hunched over the desk in his father’s company.</p><p>Marcus sidles up to him at the end of the register and says, “Hey. Look. I just wanted to apologise for how weird the other day was. I had no idea Kashel would be so —”</p><p>“Annoying?” Damen mutters, under his breath.</p><p>Marcus laughs, the kind of laugh that is full bodied, stemming from his belly. “Yeah, she was a bit. Don’t tell her that though.” In a conspiratorial whisper, he says, “She still scares the crap out of me.”</p><p>Damen smiles. “Yeah, me too.”</p><p>Outside, they both stop in the middle of the pavement. Damen’s car is parked underground, so he needs to turn to left, towards the elevators. It’s clear Marcus is going to right, towards the pedestrian crossing, which overlooks the outskirts of the city.</p><p>Damen is <em>so </em>close to bolting, but then Marcus says, “Hey. I know a cool bar not so far from here.”</p><p>Marcus points a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the high rise buildings and bustling intersection.</p><p>“Oh,” Damen frowns. He scratches the back of his neck. “I —”</p><p>Marcus steps forward. “Just for an hour or so — I have to get back to the office soon, anyway.”</p><p>His eagerness is… not necessarily off-putting, but it still fills Damen with an uncomfortableness he can’t shake off.</p><p>“Look I’m… flattered, but I’m going through a break up right now and it’s been —”</p><p>Marcus interrupts him, rushing to say, “I’m not usually so forward but I… I really am a big fan. And I’d love to have a drink with you.”</p><p>He just… says it so differently to the way Laurent does.</p><p>“We’re carrying groceries,” Damen manages weakly, after a long pause.</p><p>Marcus continues to smile at him. Damen takes a good look at him. He really is exceptionally handsome — and Damen likes his shoulders. And the rest of his body. It’s also been a while since he’s received this much attention. The only person who wants to spend time with him lately is… Laurent.</p><p>Damen swallows. Maybe he <em>does </em>need this.</p><p>He swallows again, and then nods. He puts on his charming smile, the one he reserves for interviews, the one he had used on Jokaste the first night they met.</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Marcus’ smile grows. “Have you ever been to the <em>Lucky Sam</em><em>’s</em>?”</p><p>Damen hums. “Yeah.”</p><p>The last time he had gone, he had just started teaching at Ios University, which means it’s been almost two years since he’s visited. Jokaste had taken him there to celebrate. They had gotten drunk off cheap, amazing bellinis and then gone home to fuck on their bed in the middle of the day. It had been one of the first times in Damen’s life that he had felt like everything was going… perfect.</p><p>Marcus’ smile hasn’t disappeared yet. On anyone else, it would look sleazy. “Come on,” he says, and it hits Damen that he’s actually going to do this. Whatever <em>this </em>is.</p><p>Thankfully, the walk isn’t far: Damen can see <em>Lucky Sam</em><em>’s </em>from here, its black and gold exterior a looming presence, just past the traffic lights.</p><p>Inside, it’s not busy and little has changed. The colour scheme is complementary and elegant: black, gold and cream. Everything is dark, smoky, and eerily quiet. They’re the only ones in here, which is expected: it’s not even one in the afternoon on a weekday.</p><p>They don’t go to the bar, like Damen had thought — or hoped for. Instead, Marcus, with a confidence that would normally impress him, leads them all the way to the back, where the small, private, rounded booths are.</p><p>Damen follows him with growing trepidation. Was this how Laurent had felt as he had led them down <em>Sunroom? </em>Then he diminishes the thought in favour of staring at Marcus’ backside, which is somehow incredibly better than his front.</p><p>Marcus slides into the very last booth. “This okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Damen says, even though the lighting is too dim and he has to squint. The booth is also too small for the both of them, so Damen has to sit close to Marcus — their thighs pressed to each other. It would be sensual, if not for the way Damen’s leg also brushes against his canvas bag on the floor.</p><p>Marcus starts talking instantly. He speaks with his hands: flailing movements that enter Damen’s space. Damen struggles to keep up with the conversation.</p><p>He manages, “I didn’t know environmental law was so dramatic.”</p><p>Marcus laughs again, the same deep sound as before, and it rings in the small space. Damen wonders if he’s genuinely that funny, or if Marcus is the kind of guy who just laughs freely, all the time. Even at his best, Damen wasn’t that kind of guy.</p><p>Eventually, once conversation finally grows stilted, Marcus gets up to get them drinks. Damen spares a glance at the time of his phone and groans. How has it only been fifteen minutes?</p><p>Marcus comes back three minutes later with a neat whiskey for Damen and a cheap light beer for himself — a terrible choice that Damen instantaneously judges him for.</p><p>But the alcohol serves it purpose: it loosens Damen enough to appreciate how Marcus starts each conversation, diverting it before it can fully die, and his smile is amazing. He could be a mouth model. Is that a thing for men? Is it a thing in general?</p><p>He’s not drunk, but Marcus might be; Damen catches him spacing out several times to just stare at Damen very openly.</p><p>Damen finds himself judging Marcus more. The man is large and he’s drinking <em>light beer, </em>for god’s sake.</p><p>And then it happens. As Damen finishes recounting the Marlas Incident from his last book tour, Marcus throws him another slow, sensual smile, and leans forward to kiss him. Except he doesn’t kiss Damen on the mouth — he presses his mouth to the side of Damen’s neck, biting down gently.</p><p>Damen doesn’t pull back. He swallows, staring ahead at the dark walls, as Marcus keeps kissing his neck, his skin smooth against Damen’s.</p><p>Then his hand comes down, over Damen’s crotch, his touch firm, sure.</p><p>Damen closes his eyes. It feels… good. It’s been so long since he’s felt like this, since he’s had someone touch him like this. Marcus’ hands knead over his cock in slow, tantalising movements full of surety. Damen is getting aroused. Marcus licks his neck again, his mouth making soft whimpers. His fingers are quick as he reaches for the buttons on Damen’s jeans.</p><p>At the sound of his zipper being pulled down, Damen finally comes to his senses. He’s… not ready for this. He also can’t believe he’s doing this <em>now</em>: in a dark bar with a man he’s met twice. He’s not twenty, brazenly pushing up people he doesn’t know up against walls at a party. (Literally how he had gotten Kashel pregnant — they think, at least. They had a lot of sex during that one week they spent time together).</p><p>He places his hand on Marcus’, stilling him. Marcus pulls back to look at him, questioning.</p><p>Damen smiles stiffly. “I should be heading back.”</p><p>“Oh,” Marcus looks up at him. “I — Do you think I —”</p><p>Damen stands up. “I’m sorry. I really should get going.”</p><p>Marcus looks downcast. “Yeah, sure.”</p><p>Damen offers him another smile that is tight and disingenuous, which goes unreturned. He rearrange his appearance, awkward and fumbling as Marcus continues to stare at him, lost.</p><p>As he leaves the bar, he decides he needs to message Kashel as soon as he can — so she doesn’t yell at him later.</p><p>*</p><p>Isander and Laurent are in the living room this time when he gets back. They’re cuddled up on the couch, Laurent asleep on Isander’s shoulder, as Isander watches something with a lot of melancholic music and clanging swords.</p><p>Isander looks up in surprise. There’s a bowl of fruit in his lap that hasn’t been touched — Damen suspects Laurent fell asleep before he could eat, since Isander hates pineapple.</p><p>Isander says, “Hey. What took you so long? I was just going to call you.”</p><p>Damen dumps the bag on the dining table with a small <em>thud. </em>The noise jostles Laurent awake. He blinks at Isander blearily, then his tired gaze falls on Damen. His face is swollen and splotchy pink, lines indented onto his cheek from Isander’s polo. </p><p>Damen keeps his eyes on Isander. “I was on a date.”</p><p>Isander frowns. “A date?”</p><p>Laurent blinks at him slowly. His voice is coated with sleep as he says, “No, we’re not on a date, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>Isander snorts affectionately, pulling Laurent even closer until he’s practically draped in his lap. “No, babe,” Isander starts with an endeared laugh.</p><p>Damen leaves them to it. He turns down the hallway, desperately wanting a cigarette.</p><p>*</p><p>On Tuesday morning, Laurent arrives at his office early, just past eight. Everything about him, except his expression, is exceedingly familiar: Damen already tell Laurent is tired, a little withdrawn, because all he does is give Damen a muted smile and nod.</p><p>Damen swallows so hard his throat clicks, the noise jarring in his office.</p><p>He realises, suddenly, that he had been anticipating Laurent’s sweet greeting of: “Good morning, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>Damen clears his throat. “Hey. Everything okay?”</p><p>“Oh,” Laurent looks surprised by the question, like he hadn’t thought Damen would realise, before he straightens himself, shoulders tight. “Yes, Mr Vallis. Sorry. I —” He swallows. “How are you sir?”</p><p>Damen smiles. “I’m good. What about you?”</p><p>He takes note of Laurent’s rumpled shirt, untucked, and hanging low enough it covers his shorts, so it looks as though Laurent isn’t wearing any pants. There are two matching red marks on his bare kneecaps. Damen <em>really </em>doesn’t want to think about how those appeared.</p><p>Laurent says, “I’m good, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>Damen raises his eyebrows and Laurent flushes, eyes averting. The words come out of him in short huffs, “I’m just a little tired. Summer school is really kicking my butt.”</p><p>It’s an endearing statement. Still, it makes Damen frown. “Should we reschedule then?”</p><p>As he says it, something inside him instinctively revolts. He doesn’t want to reschedule.</p><p>Thankfully, Laurent and he seem to be on the same page, if the speed in which Laurent says: “No!” is any indication.</p><p>Damen grins, gesturing to the seat next to him — now a proper, high backed chair, because he noticed how Laurent always shifted uncomfortably while seated in Isander’s stool.</p><p>Laurent notices immediately. It’s immensely gratifying to see the overwhelming gratefulness on Laurent’s face as his eyes shift from the chair to Damen.</p><p>“Sit down, Laurent,” Damen says.</p><p>Laurent bites his lip, flushing, and does so.</p><p>Quietly, they work together. Laurent bites his thumbnail as Damen goes over his notes, eyes wide and listening intently to everything Damen says.</p><p>Just as they go over Laurent’s revised plot, there are footsteps creaking across the floorboards.</p><p>Neither of them move: after a pause, Damen continues typing up revision notes onto Laurent’s laptop.</p><p>Laurent peers out the window, waiting for him to finish up.</p><p>The footsteps have stopped: Isander is probably in the bathroom.</p><p>“This is really, really good Laurent,” Damen says after a beat. “I barely had to change anything.”</p><p>Laurent squirms in his seat, pink. His breath leaves him in a long, rattling exhale, eyelashes fluttering slightly. “Thank you, Mr Vallis,” he says quietly.</p><p>“You’re welcome, Laurent,” Damen says, smiling.</p><p>Laurent watches him, eyes wide. “Thank you,” he says again.</p><p>Damen watches him for a moment, Laurent still squirming, before he turns back to the laptop, heart thudding, neck prickling.</p><p>For a while, the only noises in the office, in his house, are his typing.</p><p>As he finishes typing up his sentence, he feels the solid, deliberate movement of Laurent’s bare foot against his jean clad calf. His foot is warm, firm — Damen can feel the heat of it, and it sends warmth up Damen’s spine.</p><p>His heart jumps.</p><p>Damen doesn’t move his leg, even though he knows he should. He feels frozen, completely unable to move. Laurent’s foot climbs higher, just an inch or two, and then presses down, hard.</p><p>Damen turns to him, shocked. Laurent is staring out the window, pretending to be oblivious, but there is pink vining across his cheeks. It looks like poorly applied blush.</p><p>Damen opens his mouth. He needs to say something — berate Laurent for behaving so…</p><p>Isander appears at the doorway. Damen startles when he sees him; he hadn’t even heard him approach.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, smiling. “Are you guys almost done?”</p><p>Laurent’s foot is still on him. Neither of them acknowledge this — or move away.</p><p>Why hasn’t Damen moved away?</p><p>Laurent’s foot presses down once more, and then he pulls back. Damen is suddenly aware of how… cold his calf is, even as the rest of his body feels like it’s on fire.</p><p>Laurent says to him, eyes still wide and innocent. “We’re done aren’t we, Mr Vallis?”</p><p>Damen stares at him far longer than is normal. “Yes,” he says, voice scratchy, like it’s been unused for years.</p><p>He watches Laurent get up, gathering his own laptop. He walks over to Isander, who throws his arm around Laurent and leads them down the hallway.</p><p>Damen turns on his monitor after almost ten minutes of sitting by himself in silence. He has a deadline to meet.</p><p>*</p><p>As the afternoon unravels, Damen goes on a run. When he comes back home, he doesn’t go back to his office to write. He locks himself in his bedroom with an unopened bottle of malt whiskey he was gifted a while ago by Jokaste.</p><p>He drinks enough to get drunk — properly drunk. His head is swimming too much and he just wants… quiet for a few moments.</p><p>Eventually, his skin flushes warm, then blazing hot. His heart thrums under his skin, hard and persistent. Even with the curtains drawn, the light turned off, and the fan on, it’s still too hot. He takes off his clothes, groaning as he lies back on his cool sheets.</p><p>Damen is so tired. He closes his eyes, head spinning.</p><p>He doesn’t remember when he falls asleep, but his nap is interceded by a nightmare — the good kind of nightmare, where everything feels good right until the moment he wakes up, heart heavy with guilt.</p><p>Damen is hard.</p><p>In his sleepy haze, he grips himself with a hiss. It’s easy to do it like this, to think of Jokaste, her soft, naked body in the darkness. Damen grips himself tighter. His cock leaks steadily, and everything about this feels amazing. His dream lingers in the back of his mind, and it makes Damen’s hand work faster, eager to chase his budding orgasm. He builds a persistent rhythm, even as slowly, Jokaste’s body morphed into someone else.</p><p>Without meaning to, he thinks of Laurent’s legs: how long they are, their paleness, the golden, almost invisible hair on them, and how they had looked against dark bed sheets and the rich colour of the sofa. How they would look wrapped around his —</p><p>Damen comes.</p><p>*</p><p>He gets a text from Laurent later, at nearly four in the morning.</p><p>
  <em>i </em>
  <em>cant believe you got me so much gum lol</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and they</em>
  <em>re all my favourite flavours!!!!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thank you SO much mr vallis</em>
</p><p>And then there’s a heart. Three, in fact.</p><p>Damen carefully flips over his phone, pretending he didn’t see anything.</p><p>He has another good nightmare that night.</p><p>*</p><p>When he wakes up, the house is blessedly quiet. But then, inside the cramped space of the bathroom, he can hear soft conversation and muted laughter, filtering in through from the kitchen.</p><p>When he finally shuffles in there, he grimaces.</p><p>Isander has Laurent pressed to the stone island counter, kissing him wetly. His hands are pressed to Laurent’s hips, under his shirt, so Damen can see the thin strips of white under Isander’s dark hands. Laurent’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he kisses Isander back, his legs trapped between Isander’s, hands pressed to Isander’s chest.</p><p>Damen makes sure his next step is a loud stomp.</p><p>The noise immediately startles them. They both break apart with a horrid wet <em>pop. </em></p><p>Laurent, already a lovely shade of pink, blushes hot and fast when he catches sight of Damen. His eyes flicker down, so swiftly Damen almost doesn’t see it, over Damen’s chest, and then he flushes further, until the red creeps into his hairline.</p><p>He pushes Isander’s hands off him, and says, quietly, “Morning, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>Isander turns around then, dark circles under his eyes and mouth red and frowning. “Hey,” he says, a little shortly.</p><p>Damen grunts in greeting. He supposes Isander was right, all those weeks ago: this house <em>is </em>too sunny.</p><p>His head is aching. Damen stalks over to the counter Laurent is currently still leant up against. Laurent watches him approach with wild eyes.</p><p>His arm brushes against Laurent’s as he reaches around him for his coffee mug. Laurent makes a small noise in the back of his throat — the same one he makes in the dead of the night in Isander’s bedroom.</p><p>Isander clearly recognises the sound as well. He tugs Laurent towards him and kisses his temple, chaste and sweet.</p><p>Damen knows he’s catastrophically fucked if even <em>this </em>ignites a spark of unfiltered jealousy.</p><p>He grunts again, aware of the strange looks the both of them throw his way.</p><p>“Are you <em>drunk</em>?” Isander says accusingly, nose scrunched as though he can smell the liquor off Damen. Damen knows for a fact that he can’t.</p><p>“I was,” Damen says noncommittally. His entire body is straining.</p><p>He reaches up, to the cupboard above the sink, and grabs the tin of terrible instant coffee blend he keeps around specifically for hangovers.</p><p>Isander’s stare is worried, a little pitying as Damen struggles to open the flat metal lid.</p><p>“Here, Mr Vallis,” Laurent says suddenly, invading his space, the scent of lemon lingering in the air. He gently pries the tin from Damen’s hands, pinkie briefly pressing over Damen’s. Damen stares at him openly, senses disconcerted and muddled. Laurent isn’t staring back; his gaze travels down to Damen’s naked shoulders, and then his chest.</p><p>Damen thinks he must be more hung over than he originally thought. Or maybe Isander is right: he still must be drunk — because he just… stands there, his nightmare replaying in his head, watching Laurent peter about his kitchen, like he’s lived here his entire life, doing nothing but cater to Damen’s needs.</p><p>Laurent fixes him coffee, movements careful, because he thinks he knows Laurent well enough to know that… Laurent doesn’t want to screw this up, even if <em>this </em>is just making a mediocre cup of coffee.</p><p>He’s… eager to impress Damen.</p><p>He knows Laurent is aware of his staring: the colour on his face does that intoxicating thing where it travels down to his neck. Damen has a strong feeling the colour goes even lower, to his collarbones, his chest, his — </p><p>Damen blinks. He peers out the window instead, where the garden with its patchy grass swims in front of his eyes. From his peripheral, he can see that Isander is equally mesmerised by Laurent — and by extension —has not noticed Damen’s staring.</p><p>“Here you go, sir,” Laurent says quietly, handing Damen his mug. Once again, their fingers brush against each other as Laurent passes the mug on.</p><p>Laurent watches him take his first sip hungrily.</p><p>Realistically, it’s no different than any other cup of coffee Damen has had. This particular blend, for all its mediocrity, is still rich, earthy and smells like any coffee shop early in the morning.</p><p>But Damen knows what Laurent needs.</p><p>He closes his eyes, savouring it, as he takes a large, satisfying gulp.</p><p>When he opens his eyes, he fixes Laurent with an intense look and tight smile. “It’s great. I love it. You did a wonderful job, Laurent.”</p><p>Laurent’s eyes blow wide, until the black almost overtakes the blue. Even the bridge of his nose goes red, and he sways on his feet towards Damen. The sound he makes is heady: a bitten off choke.</p><p>Isander seems to think so too; he pulls Laurent close again and noses Laurent’s temple, then his cheek.</p><p>Damen’s smile grows more mellow.</p><p>“Why don’t you both head off to the living room? Or better yet, go outside,” he says, but he keeps his eyes on Laurent as he says it.</p><p>Laurent nods, eyes glassy.</p><p>There’s a minuscule pause, and then he turns to Isander. “Let’s go,” he says, voice low, slightly breathless.</p><p>Their hands are linked as they leave, Laurent eagerly leading them out to the garden.</p><p>Sipping his coffee, Damen watches from the window as Laurent presses Isander to the pillar in the alfresco, kissing him with an enthusiasm that clearly catches Isander off guard.</p><p>“What’s with you?” Isander laughs.</p><p>Whatever Laurent says in response is lost into Isander’s mouth.</p><p>Damen swallows. His head is killing him. Maybe he should just go back to bed.</p><p>*</p><p>Damen thinks it’s because his own life is so lethargic now that he immediately recognises the motionlessness of Laurent’s.</p><p>By now, Damen knows Laurent’s routine to the letter. On Tuesdays and Thursdays Laurent wakes up early, sometimes just as as the sun is rising. He spends an hour or so sitting outside, either on his phone, or just watching the garden, the flowers and the sky.</p><p>Then Damen calls him in so they can make breakfast together — usually, they have bagels or omelettes or on one memorable occasion, waffles. Sometimes they leave some for Isander. Damen is embarrassed about how many times he’s forgotten to leave food for his son. In his defence, by the time Isander wakes up, it’s almost always lunch time.</p><p>After breakfast, he and Laurent work in his office for an hour, maybe two, working through Laurent’s novel — which is coming along at a fast and impressive rate.</p><p>Some days it’s easier to ignore the heat of Laurent’s body, the drag of his foot against his.</p><p>He doesn’t know how — or when — this became part of the routine, but it is.</p><p>Then Isander wakes up and Laurent leaves his office. While he spends the rest of the morning and afternoon in his office, writing his own book — which is… tentatively coming along — Isander and Laurent watch movies in the living room at an unnaturally loud volume. Or they spend time in his bedroom, with the door firmly shut.</p><p>Laurent usually leaves before dinner time — unless he wants to spend the night. For the rest of the week, Laurent doesn’t come over at all because of his summer school schedule. Isander doesn’t hang around either; he goes to the beach, or Erasmus’, or Kashel’s — basically anywhere besides home.</p><p>On Friday, Isander is in the living room, lingering. Damen has just finished his second cigarette — his next one is on Sunday, thank fuck — and he’s in an amazing mood, because the smell of smoke is still inside his mouth, the tips of his fingers. But that all dissipates when he catches sight of Isander, who is glued in front of the television, drinking iced coffee.</p><p>Seeing Isander reminds Damen instantly of Laurent. Guilt bubbles in his chest, then sadness, and then the guilt comes back, choking him.</p><p>“Hey,” Damen says.</p><p>Isander gives him a small smile. “Hey.” He takes a sip of his drink. “How’s your book going? You taking a break?”</p><p>“Yeah, a small one,”Damen says, oddly touched that Isander even noticed. “And the book’s fine.”</p><p>“Cool.” Isander turns back to the television, effectively dismissing Damen.</p><p><em>Fun chat</em>, Damen thinks dryly.</p><p>As he watches Isander lounge about, he inevitably, thinks of Laurent,  and more specifically, the two of them together. All they ever do is this: watching television, playing video games, locked inside. Isander hasn’t even taken Laurent to <em>Sunroom — </em>which is down the road. And Laurent is new to Ios: he probably hasn’t seen much of it, even after all this time.</p><p>Laurent is bored. Damen knows he is. He’s been living Laurent’s life for the last couple of months.</p><p>Before he goes back into his office, he says, “Hey. Does Laurent have school tomorrow?”</p><p>“Nope,” Isander says, eyes still on the screen.</p><p>Damen sighs. “Hey. Look at me.”</p><p>Isander does so, eyebrows knitted together. “What?”</p><p>“Tomorrow night, you’re taking Laurent to <em>Koi Pond.</em>”</p><p>“I am?”</p><p>“Yes,” Damen says. “You two can’t spend the entire summer locked up in here — or Laurent’s apartment. You should take Laurent out once in a while, on proper dates. It’s what a good boyfriend would do.”</p><p>Isander flushes. “We do go on dates,” he says, a little defensively. “I met up with him on campus last week.”</p><p>Damen, thankfully, manages to keep a straight face. He starts again, slowly. “Look. I’ll set up the reservation and everything. All you have to do is show up with Laurent. Got it?”</p><p>Isander diverts his eyes. “Whatever,” he says testily.</p><p>Damen’s nostrils flare. There’s an urge to just… lash out at Isander. All he says, though, is, “I’ll set  it up for eight pm.”</p><p>He doesn’t get a response. But he can already imagine Laurent’s.</p><p>Damen can’t wait to hear it in real life, too.</p><p>*</p><p>Damen spends Saturday night alone, working on his book, watching the clock. Isander had left at seven-thirty to pick up Laurent. It’s eight now. They should be at the restaurant by now — they only hold reservations for fifteen minutes.</p><p>He wonders what they’ll order. <em>Koi Pond </em>has a decent seafood selection. Maybe he should call up Isander and tell him about it, so he can order it for Laurent — and for himself. He knows Isander will like it as well.</p><p>Damen stays up until two in the morning.</p><p>Isander never comes home, and neither does Laurent. He supposes they’re going to spend time in Laurent’s too small bed. So. He should probably go to his own bed. Which is large. And big enough for him. Definitely.</p><p>*</p><p>The knock on his bedroom door on Sunday night is unexpected.</p><p>Damen is on his bed, on his laptop, finishing up his third chapter. He hit ten thousand words today. It’s — Damen didn’t think he’d actually get there. It feels monumental.</p><p>When the knock comes, it doesn’t break Damen’s stride, despite the jarring sound. He keeps typing and yells out: “Come in.”</p><p>He’s expecting Isander: the wifi has recently been acting up and he’s complained about it approximately a hundred times.</p><p>What he isn’t expecting is Laurent, already dressed in pyjamas: a large, loose Britney Spears tank top and  patterned sleep shorts. He says, “Hey Mr Vallis, can I —”</p><p>“Oh.” Damen stops. He closes his laptop. “Hey. What’s up.” He can’t pretend it’s a question.</p><p>Laurent is exuberant: his smile is wide, creasing his face, until his eyes are almost slits, and there pink has spread all the way down to the sides of his neck.</p><p>“Mr Vallis,” he says, still smiling, “I just wanted to thank you <em>so freaking much </em>for the other night.” He’s practically dancing on the balls of his feet, squirming with excitement.</p><p>It’s… almost exactly how Damen had imagined it.</p><p>He just never imagined it happening <em>here, </em>in his bedroom, so late at night. Just the two of them. With Laurent half naked.</p><p>Damen presses his lips together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“Sir…” Laurent starts. “Isander has taken me a total of two places since we’ve been together. I know he’d never — I mean. <em>Koi Pond </em>isn’t really somewhere we’d go.”</p><p>Damen frowns. “Isander’s taken you to <em>two </em>places?”</p><p>Laurent doesn’t answer the question. “And Isander also didn’t know the <em>Koi Pond </em>had a dress code — we had to give the host like, an extra fifty bucks to let us in and.” Laurent shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I had a really great time. Thanks to you.” The last part is said achingly sweet, with Laurent staring at him through his lashes. “So. Thank you, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>Damen’s mouth is cottony. He wishes he hadn’t closed his laptop — now his eyes have nowhere else to fix on.</p><p>He says again, “I really didn’t do much.”</p><p>Laurent’s shoulders drop a little, as does his face. “Oh. Okay.” His smile grows tighter. “I’ll see you later, Mr Vallis.”</p><p>Damen didn’t set up this dinner with the intention of taking credit for it: all he wanted was for Laurent to see more of Ios, and for Isander to get out of the house once in a while. He wanted his son to be a good boyfriend. That’s it.</p><p>Now he says, “You’re welcome, Laurent. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”</p><p>Laurent’s smile comes back, wider this time. He nods. “Good night, sir.”</p><p>“You don’t have to call me sir, Laurent,” Damen says. “Especially when we’re alone.”</p><p>“I want to,” says Laurent, chin tipped back, his blue eyes bright. “Is that a problem, sir?”</p><p>Damen says, “No,” even though it feels like it should be. </p><p>After a moment, he says: “Good night.” He gives Laurent a soft smile. “Close the door behind you, please.”</p><p>He doesn’t want to take note of how quickly Laurent obeys the order. But he does.</p><p>*</p><p>In bed later that night, Damen realises he’s done something terribly wrong.</p><p>He shouldn’t be this weird and tense around Laurent. Laurent’s presence in his house shouldn’t make his fists clench with anticipation. Laurent shouldn’t feel confident enough to… touch him the way he does.</p><p>It’s not normal — and Damen knows it’s his fault. He’s done something. He’s given Laurent some sign that makes him think that their interactions are fine, okay, when it’s been anything but.</p><p>It’s strange. Everything about their relationship is strange, and Damen needs to stop it, right this instant.</p><p>Starting with the most obvious solution: he blocks Laurent’s number.</p><p>Except… he doesn’t quite block it. Just in case there’s ever an emergency with Isander, and Laurent needs to contact him.</p><p>But he ignores <em>every single </em>one of Laurent’s messages, including — especially — the ones where he asks to meet up for his book. The book Damen should have never promised to look at it.</p><p>God.</p><p>Every fucking thing with Laurent is a mess.</p><p>All Damen wanted was to get along with Isander’s boyfriend. He’s accomplished that: he’s been nice, he’s made polite conversation with Laurent many times. He’s even taken the time to comfort him. He can’t keep doing things like that.</p><p>He’s done.</p><p>*</p><p>Weeks go by. At the end of the month, Damen finds himself back on campus, ready to start his crash course: a six week workshop on creative writing. It’s a sizeable class, with about sixty students, but the workload is strenuous. It’s already stressing Damen out. He feels sorry for his students.</p><p>Campus is just as empty as it had been the last week of last semester. The only places open are the gift shop, the mediocre Thai restaurant, and — thankfully — the coffee shop. Otherwise, it feels like he’s part of a strange ghost town, where the only people who interact him are stone faced freshmen. </p><p>Working full time again means he can only work on his novel during the weekend. It also means he has more… legitimate reasons to avoid Laurent.</p><p>When Laurent texts: <em>is tuesday okay mr vallis?, </em>Damen doesn’t answer, but he tells Isander, in an offhand manner, that he can’t meet up with Laurent in the mornings anymore.</p><p>Isander stares at him across the table, confused. “What?”</p><p>Damen sighs, but is oddly comforted by how little Isander cares. “Tell Laurent I can’t meet him up in the morning. For his book.”</p><p>“Oh,” Isander looks back at his phone. “Sure.”</p><p>Damen sighs.</p><p>*</p><p>Halfway through Damen’s second writing sprint, Auguste texts a group chain that Damen had completely forgotten about, with three people Damen hasn’t spoken to in six years.</p><p>It reads: L<em>eaving Ios next week. Farewell party at my place on Saturday 8pm</em></p><p>Damen reads it with a frown. After a moment — several moments — of deliberation, he calls Auguste.</p><p>Auguste picks up on the third ring. His voice is in its usual chipper cadence. “Hey, man! How’s it going?”</p><p>“I — good,” Damen says, thrown off. He clears his throat and starts over: “I. You’re leaving?”</p><p>Auguste hums. “Just for a year. My company’s transferring me to work the Patran division. It’s really not a big deal. It’s actually sort of a promotion.”</p><p>“Oh,” Damen says. The news is both exciting and underwhelming — which he realises is an asshole-ish thing to say. “Congratulations. That’s great, man.”</p><p>Auguste’s laugh is a short, booming sound. “Thanks. Honestly, I’m excited for it.”</p><p>Damen waits a beat, wondering if he should, and then asks, “Does Laurent know?”</p><p>“Of course he does!” Auguste says. “He was the first to know. But honestly, he’s being —” Auguste cuts off, and then there’s some strange muffled conversation. “Shit, sorry. I’m on my lunch break and I need to —”</p><p>“Oh no — shit. Go ahead,” Damen says. He looks at the time on his screen and winces: it’s exactly one in the afternoon. “I’ll see you.”</p><p>“Yeah, remember: eight on Saturday!”</p><p>“Yeah, I —” The line clicks.</p><p>Damen stares at his phone for a moment, then tries to get back to writing.</p><p>*</p><p>It works for three whole weeks. Damen only manages to follow his plan for three fucking weeks.</p><p>On one random Monday, Laurent is waiting outside his office when Damen wakes up. His insides immediately freeze. But he nods at Laurent.</p><p>“Hey. Everything okay?”</p><p>Laurent bites his lips, arms crossed in front of him. “Hey, Mr Vallis.” He doesn’t meet Damen’s eyes, watching his own feet. “How are you?”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>There’s a long pause. Damen wonders if he can just slip inside his office, unnoticed. Seeing Laurent up close after so long isn’t making him feel great. The guilt is like a shadow.</p><p>Laurent finally looks up at him. “Mr Vallis,” he begins hesitantly, “Did I do something?”</p><p>Damen’s heart climbs to his throat, threatening to escape.</p><p>“What makes you think that?” he chokes out eventually.</p><p>“I feel like you’re…” Laurent looks away again. In a small voice, he says, “Different.”</p><p>“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Damen says, forcing the words out, his throat still too thick.</p><p>“What?” Laurent’s gaze is quizzical.</p><p>“I —” How the fuck is he supposed to explain himself? He shouldn’t have said anything. He says, “Nothing. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Laurent’s mouth parts.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy,” Damen says. “That’s all.”</p><p>Laurent frowns. “But it feels like…” He trails off.</p><p>Damen swallows, then he places a hand on his shoulder. Laurent’s skin, through his shirt, is warm, hard. “Hey,” he says, and waits until Laurent looks at him. “You want to work on your book?”</p><p>“Really? Mr Vallis, I — yes.” He turns those amazingly blue eyes on Damen. “Yes. Please.”</p><p>There’s a static moment — and then Laurent continues, breathless, glazed, “Mr Vallis, can I just go get my laptop from the other room?”</p><p>Damen’s stomach flips.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, strangled.</p><p>Laurent’s eyes flutter, so Damen can see the criss-cross of blue-green veins across his lids. “Thank you sir,” he says softly, then turns down the hallway.</p><p>Damen watches him go, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Then he exhales soundlessly, and goes inside his office.</p><p>*</p><p>Auguste’s party is not a sombre affair. Damen doesn’t know why he thought it would be. When he and Isander pull up, two hours late because Damen had been on a Skype call with another professor about the new syllabus markup, it’s clear that everyone has been drunk for a while.</p><p>Auguste cheers when he enters, and everyone else follows suit. From the corner of his eye, Damen sees Isander disappear to the balcony, where he presumes Laurent is.</p><p>Auguste gives him a hug, smelling strongly of beer, and pulls him to the sofa, which Damen is too small to seat him, especially in between Jord and another man he doesn’t know.</p><p>Instead, he sits on the armrest, awkward and feeling like some strange, lumbering giant. He can’t even drink too much because he drove them here tonight — a decision he is sorely regretting.</p><p>Damen feels even more awkward when a pretty red haired woman he doesn’t recognise gives Auguste a box wrapped in sparkly paper, and then suddenly everyone is gathering around, shoving farewell gifts into Auguste’s lap.</p><p>Shit. Damen hadn’t even <em>thought </em>of getting one.</p><p>He really needs a smoke. He’s spent all week saving it up for tonight, because he knows himself.</p><p>He manages to escape out into the balcony with minimal fuss; everyone is preoccupied with Auguste. As he shuts the sliding door behind him, he sees Laurent, huddled up on the squashed two seater, legs bunched up under him, crying.</p><p>He’s also alone.</p><p>Laurent jerks his head up as the door clicks shut, expression drawn and eyes red. “Mr Vallis?”</p><p>“Hey,” Damen says. For a moment, the concern overwhelms his own awkwardness. “Are you okay? Where’s Isander?”</p><p>“Bathroom.” Laurent’s lip quivers as he says it and he manages to slur, even on a two syllable word.</p><p>Laurent is drunk and crying and Damen is wholly unprepared.</p><p>God, he thinks, then braces himself.</p><p>He manages to squish himself next to Laurent after a bit of struggle. “What’s wrong?” he asks.</p><p>Laurent doesn’t say anything for a while. He buries his face into his hands and cries, and all Damen does is rub a soothing hand on his back, wishing Isander would hurry back.</p><p>“It’s just…” Laurent’s face crumples, his forehead creasing as he struggles to make out the words. “The only reason I came out all the way here is because of Auguste. And now he’s leaving. It’s what we were fighting about the other day. Do you remember, sir?”</p><p>When Damen nods, a single tear runs down Laurent’s face. He chokes out: “And now I only have Isander here. I feel so —” He cuts himself off with a small, shuddering gasp.</p><p>“Hey.” Damen grips Laurent shoulder, running his fingers over the hard muscle there, trying to sound as soothing as he can. He waits until Laurent meets his eyes and says, “You don’t just have Isander, Laurent. You have me too. Alright?”</p><p>Laurent looks at him in surprise. “Mr Vallis…” His voice is breathless. “Do you really mean that?”</p><p>Something in the air shifts around them, taking shape.</p><p>Damen swallows and says: “Of course.”</p><p>He watches Laurent’s face. The wondrous reverence that steals across it is breathtaking. Like that morning in the kitchen, Laurent’s face changes slowly as he deliberately comes to a decision.</p><p>Bridging the small gap between them, Laurent kisses Damen.</p><p>Damen registers the feel of Laurent’s warm, chapped mouth on his, inexperienced and shy, and his mind completely blanks. Laurent’s hand is firm, pressing down on the Damen’s jaw, the pads of his fingertips tracing over stubble.</p><p>Laurent makes small, huffing moans under his breath. It’s one thing to hear it through the wall, muffled and barely audible, and another to hear it now, breathed into his mouth. Each sound sparks Damen’s gut on fire, and he doesn’t know when he started, but he realises he’s kissing Laurent back —  hard, eager kisses, his own hands gripping Laurent’s waist.</p><p>Laurent’s fingers travel, unable to find a destination. Then he settles them into the hair above Damen’s nape, twisting.</p><p>When Laurent moans, loud and drawn out, Damen snaps.</p><p>It’s like he comes back to his body in an instant, and every minuscule detail comes to him in waves: the sound of the party filters in, the heat of Laurent’s flushed face, and the fact that he’s kissing his son’s boyfriend — <em>what the fuck.</em></p><p>Damen pulls back so fast, Laurent totters, almost falling forwards into his lap.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Damen thinks, bile rising. Laurent is <em>drunk. </em>Laurent is Auguste’s little brother. Laurent is <em>Isander</em><em>’s fucking boyfriend. </em></p><p>What the fuck is he doing?</p><p>“Mr Vallis?” Laurent’s voice is small. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Damen’s laugh is a high, brittle sound. “<em>What</em><em>’s wrong?</em>” he snaps back. “Did you really just fucking ask me that?”</p><p>He thinks he might be sick.</p><p>But Laurent is slow. His eyebrows furrow. “I thought you wanted me.” He says it self consciously, hands twisting in his lap, now that they aren’t on Damen. His red-rimmed eyes meet Damen’s. “I see the way you look at me.”</p><p>Damen’s heart stops.</p><p>He stands up, shaking. Then he walks out, leaving Laurent alone on the balcony.</p><p>*</p><p>Back home, Damen drinks until his eyes grow heavy with sleep. He doesn’t let his mind stray, even as his heart continues its relentless thudding against his chest.</p><p>When he wakes up, there are twenty-two texts and seventeen missed calls from Laurent.</p><p>There’s also one from Isander that reads: <em>did you really leave without me???? Wtf. </em></p><p>And then: <em>I</em><em>’m staying at laurents.</em></p><p>Damen doesn’t open a single notification from Laurent. Instead, he blocks his number, then rolls over, pressing his face to the pillow, wishing for death.</p><p>*</p><p>For three days after the party, Damen waits with baited breath for Isander to confront him. Every scenario he imagines is complicated, terrifying. They usually end with Isander’s fist connecting with his face — and the worst part is Damen knows it would be the <em>least </em>of what he deserves.</p><p>Except, the confrontation never comes. Isander stays angry at Damen for two days for leaving him at Auguste’s, but it’s forgotten about when Damen orders pizza for dinner.</p><p>A few weeks later, Damen realises that his life has fallen into stagnancy once more.</p><p>This time though, he rejoices it. He hasn’t seen Laurent since that one night, and he doesn’t care to. Every time he thinks of it (in the darkest hours of the night, with his head throbbing and eyes screwed shut) he feels sick, ashamed, guilty. He feels like his heart is being squeezed too tight in his chest, especially when he recalls the words Laurent had spoken.</p><p>He has to dig his nails into his thighs, deep enough to draw blood just to stop thinking about it and fucking <em>spiralling. </em></p><p>Laurent stops coming over completely, and this time, Damen doesn’t ask Isander why.</p><p>He knows Isander is still with Laurent, and that Laurent must not have told him… anything, because he still hears them talking at night, Isander’s voice always soft and fond.</p><p>When one more week passes, Damen finally relaxes. Just enough for some of the tension to leave his body. The guilt still lingers, though: he knows he made a mistake — and he’s not eager to repeat it.</p><p>Frankly, he’d be happy if he never saw Laurent again.</p><p>*</p><p>On the last week of his crash course, Damen feels cold dread flood his body when he sees Laurent’s familiar golden head walk down the busy hallway, towards his office.</p><p>Damen freezes, and before he can rush into his office and lock the door behind him, Laurent is <em>there, </em>in front of him, looking tired and drawn. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks and Damen wonders if Isander has noticed, if he’s worried.</p><p>“Mr Vallis,” Laurent begins in that same sweet way, although it’s coated with nerves and sadness.</p><p>“No,” Damen says, and Laurent winces, closing his eyes.</p><p>He can’t believe Laurent is <em>here</em>, where he fucking works.</p><p>“Please,” Laurent says quietly, “I really need to talk to you.”</p><p>“No,” Damen says again, and it’s harsh, biting.</p><p>Laurent’s chin wobbles, and his throat bobs as he swallows. His left leg seems incapable of being still: it’s jittery, jumpy.</p><p>Laurent’s eyes fall to the floor. In a rush, like he’s expecting Damen to leave, he says, “I just wanted to say I’m <em>so </em>sorry.” His voice hitches, and Damen can see the sheen of tears in his eyes, even from here. “I don’t know what happened. I was so drunk and upset and you were —” He stops, starts over. “You were being nice to me. I just. I don’t <em>know</em>.”</p><p>Damen’s chest tightens. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to ever acknowledge that <em>this </em>ever happened.</p><p>Even looking at Laurent now, it’s hard not to remember Laurent’s fumbling kiss, despite the surety of his touches.</p><p>“<em>Please </em>say something,” Laurent says, when the silence stretches on and on.</p><p>“Laurent,” Damen says, and Laurent looks up at him, eyes wide, features compressing into something grateful.</p><p>“Yes, Mr Vallis?”</p><p>Damen swallows. “I think it’s best if you find someone else to look over your book.”</p><p>The last thing he sees before he closes his office door is Laurent’s teary, heartbroken expression.</p><p> </p>
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